PLAYS  FOR  CLASSROOM 
INTERPRETATION 


EDITED  BY 

EDWIN  VAN  B.  KNICKERBOCKER 

Chairman  of  the  English  Department 

The  George  Washington  High  School 

New  York 


DRAWINGS  BY 
OLINDO  RICCI 


NEW  YORK 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


1 


COPYKIGHT,    1921 
BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


JJecember,   1922 


f 


Printed  in  the  U.   S.  A. 


IMPORTANT  NOTICE 

The  authors  and  publishers  of  the  plays  included  in  the 
present  volume  have  permitted  this  reprinting  of  copyrighted 
material  on  the  understanding  that  the  plays  will  be  used  only 
in  classroom  work.  No  other  use  of  any  of  the  plays  is  au- 
thorized, and  permission  for  any  such  other  use  must  be  se- 
cured from  the  holder  of  the  acting  rights.  For  each  play 
in  this  book  the  name  and  address  of  the  holder  of  such  rights 
is  printed  below  the  list  of  the  characters  in  the  play. 

The  law  protecting  the  rights  of  the  dramatist  is  quoted 
herewith: 

"Sec.  4966: — Any  person  publicly  performing  or  represent- 
ing any  dramatic  or  musical  composition  for  which  copyright 
has  been  obtained,  without  the  consent  of  the  proprietor  of 
said  dramatic  or  musical  composition,  or  his  heirs  or  assigns, 
shall  be  liable  for  damages  therefor,  such  damages  in  all  cases 
to  be  assessed  at  such  sum,  not  less  than  one  hundred  dollars 
for  the  first  and  fifty  dollars  for  every  subsequent  performance, 
as  to  the  court  shall  appear  to  be  just.  If  the  unlawful  per- 
formance and  representation  be  wilful  and  for  profit,  such 
person  or  persons  shall  be  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  ana  upon 
conviction  be  imprisoned  for  a  period  not  exceeding  one  year." 
— U.  S.  Revised  Statutes,  Title  60,  Chap.  3. 


50261*1 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

For  permission  generously  accorded  for  use  of 
the  plays  included  in  this  book,  the  writer  ac- 
knowledges his  obligation  as  follows: 

To  Lady  Gregory  and  Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's 
Sons  for  "  Spreading  the  News." 

To  Lord  Dunsany  and  Messrs.  Little,  Brown  and 
Company  for  "  The  Golden  Doom." 

To  Mr.  Eugene  Pillot  and  Brentano's  for  "Two 
Crooks  and  A  Lady." 

To  Miss  Doris  F.  Halman  for  "Will  o'  the  Wisp." 

To  Beulah  Marie  Dix  (Mrs.  G.  H.  Flebbe)  and 
Messrs.  Henry  Holt  and  Company  for  "Allison's 
Lad." 

To  Miss  Margaret  Scott  Oliver  and  Mr.  Richard 
G.  Badger  for  "The  Turtle  Dove." 

To  Mrs.  Stephen  Phillips  and  The  Macmillan 
Company  for  the  "Ulysses"  selection. 


fiv] 


CONTENTS 

Page 
Introduction vii 


PART  I 

Classroom  Work  with  a  Play 

Chapter  I.  The  Preliminary  Study 3 

Plot 3 

Theme 6 

Atmosphere 8 

Setting 10 

Preliminary  Characterization 13 

Music 14 

Chapter  II.  The  Detailed  Interpretation.  .  16 

The  Situations 17 

Realizing  the  Setting 20 

Acting  as  Team-Work 23 

Getting  Inside  the  Character , 28 

The  Auditory  Appeal 33 

The  Visual  Appeal 59 

[v] 


CONTENTS 

PART  II 

The  Plays 

The  Golden  Doom 75 

Lord  Dunsany 

*  Two  Cbooks  and  a  Lady 93 

Eugene  Pillot 

*  Will  o'  the  Wisp 121    1^ 

Doris  F.  Halman 
^  Spkeading  the  News 141 

Lady  Gregory 
The  Turtle  Dove 169—^ 

Margaret  Scott  Oliver 
Allison's  Lad 191 

Beulah  Marie  Dix 
Ulysses  (Scene  2,  Act  III) 213 

Stephen  Phillips 
Notes  on  the  Plays 237 


PART  III 

Notes  to  the  Instructor 

Notes  on  Chapter  1 247 

Notes  on  Chapter  II 251 


[vi] 


INTRODUCTION 

This  book  has  been  prepared  for  use  as  a  high 
school  text-book  in  the  classroom  interpretation 
of  short  plays. 

In  such  work  the  plays  are  acted  out  in  the  class- 
room with  expressive  oral  rendering  of  the  lines, 
and  with  complete  action,  gesticulation,  and  facial 
expression.  The  lines  are  read  from  the  text,  no 
stage  is  required,  and  no  stage  equipment  or  cos- 
tuming is  necessary,  although  some  simple  pro- 
vision for  these  is  desirable.  The  interpretation 
of  a  play  is  highly  motivated  and  socialized  proj- 
ect work,  providing  numerous  problems  of  genuine 
interest  and  value.  The  project  as  a  whole  and  its 
component  problems  all  lie  properly  in  the  field 
of  English,  and  the  work  can  be  done  by  any  Eng- 
lish class.  Because  the  work  is  group  work,  it  is 
desirable  that  something  of  the  spirit  of  the  studio 
should  prevail  rather  than  the  atmosphere  of  the 
more  formal  classroom. 

Nowadays  teachers  very  generally  realize  the 
value  of  dramatic  work,  but  the  practical  difficul- 
ties peculiar  to  the  problem  of  working  in  the  class- 
room with  good  short  plays  have  been  so  great  that 
few  teachers  have  attempted  it.  The  writer  be- 
lieves that1  the  use  of  the  present  book  as  a  student's 
text-book  will  make  dramatic  interpretation  in  the 
[vii] 


INTRODUCTION 

classroom  an  entirely  practical  phase  of  high  school 
work  in  English.  Indeed,  the  book  is  an  outcome 
of  the  writer's  efforts  to  overcome  the  difficulties 
he  has  encountered  in  the  course  of  his  work  with 
dramatic  classes  in  the  English  Department  of  the 
Evander  Childs  High  School. 
^^ -  Teachers  realize  that  properly  directed  work  in 
J^  dramatics  develops  the  student's  power  of  self- 
expression  through  its  training  in  the  co-ordination 
of  mind  and  body;  that  it  makes  for  social  efficiency, 
both  in  the  development  of  the  spirit  of  team-work 
and  in  the  inculcation  of  a  knowledge  of  social 
usages;  that  it  quickens  the  powers  of  vizualiza- 
tion  and  auditization ;  that  it  tends  to  deepen  the 
student's  knowledge  of  human  nature.  They 
realize  that  such  work  provides  highly  motivated 
and  socialized  project  work;  that  it  affords  un- 
usual opportunities  for  speech  improvement  and 
develops  in  the  student  an  ability  to  read  aloud 
effectively;  that  it  stimulates  interest  in  related 
fields  of  art  and  history;  that  it  provides  occasion 
for  real  co-operation  between  departments  in  the 
school.  They  realize,  too,  that  the  work  with  the 
modern  short  play  tends  to  develop  in  the  students 
a  proper  taste  in  an  important  phase  of  present  day 
literature. 

But  teachers  know  that  text-books  for  the  most 
satisfactory  kind  of  dramatic  work  have  not  been 
available.  There  are  school  editions  of  Shakspere, 
and  there  are  on  the  authorized  school  lists  cer- 
tain other  dramatic  classics  like  "  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer."  But  these  plays  are  very  long  for 
[viii] 


INTRODUCTION 

classroom  acting,  the  diction  is  frequently  difficult, 
the  roles  are  often  beyond  the  powers  of  the  stu- 
dents to  portray,  and  the  spirit  of  the  plays  is  gener- 
ally hard  for  the  students  to  appreciate  and  harder 
for  them  to  create.  Our  boys  and  girls  will  work 
with  enthusiasm  and  spontaneity  only  with  plays 
that  are  not  open  to  these  objections.  Really 
good  one-act  plays  are  numerous,  but  not  those 
that  are  wholly  fit  for  public  school  use.  And  when 
just  the  right  plays  are  found,  they  must  generally 
be  bought  by  the  students,  and  such  plays  are 
likely  to  be  high  in  price;  very  rarely  will  more 
than  one  thoroughly  suitable  play  be  found  in  any 
one  volume,  so  that  the  work  with  a  series  of  short 
plays  necessitates  the  purchase  of  several  books. 

A  second  difficulty  in  the  classroom  interpreta- 
tion of  plays  is  that  the  work  is  new;  so  far  as  the 
writer  knows,  no  method  of  procedure  has  before 
this  been  presented  in  text-book  form,  and  many 
teachers  hesitate  to  make  the  venture  in  this 
field  (which  they  are  convinced  is  a  promising  one) 
for  fear  they  may  wrongly  emphasize  values  and 
aims. 

A  further  difficulty,  more  apparent  than  real, 
however,  is  the  fact  that  courses  of  study  do  not 
mention  dramatic  interpretation,  and  teachers 
must  meet  course  of  study  requirements. 

The  Plays 

The  seven  pieces  reprinted  in  this  volume  should 
prove  in  their  type,  in  their  quality,  and  in  their 
fix! 


INTRODUCTION 

variety,  eminently  satisfactory  for  use  in  the  class- 
room. Their  number  allows  considerable  choice,  as 
well. 

With  the  exception  of  the  scene  from  "  Ulysses  " 
they  are  one-act  plays,  and  the  selection  from 
"  Ulysses  "  is  dramatically  complete  and  so  con- 
stitutes practically  a  one-act  play. 

The  one-act  play  is  for  many  reasons  better 
suited  to  classroom  use  than  the  longer  play. 
The  former  has  few  characters,  is  simple  in  con- 
struction, and  is  highly  unified  in  both  plot  and 
spirit.  There  is  usually  only  one  setting  to  be 
imagined,  and  the  stage  action  is  almost  always 
simpler  than  in  the  longer  play.  The  one-act  play 
is  modern,  and  modern  plays  make  a  strong  appeal 
to  the  high  school  boy  or  girl;  even  if  they  deal 
with  times  long  past  and  places  far  away,  plays 
written  to-day  are  conceived  in  the  modern  spirit. 

The  scene  from  "  Ulysses  "  may  seem  somewhat 
difficult  to  act  in  the  classsroom,  but  the  writer 
believes  it  will  not  prove  so.  The  story  is  a  familiar 
one,  and  the  students  know  something  of  Greek 
times  and  customs.  In  the  classroom  work  there 
is  no  real  need  for  more  than  a  few  suitors  and 
serving  women.  It  seemed  desirable  to  include  a 
play  in  blank  verse,  and  to  provide  some  historic 
or  legendary  material;  these  considerations  deter- 
mined the  choice  of  the  "Ulysses"  selection.  Ste- 
phen Phillips's  beautiful  blank  verse  is  seen  here 
at  its  best,  and  the  whole  treatment  of  the  well- 
known  home-coming  of  the  hero  is  at  once  realistic 
and  imaginative. 

[x] 


INTRODUCTION 

The  seven  plays  were  selected  from  a  very  wide 
field.  Many  plays  that  would  be  effective  on  the 
public  stage  are  unsuitable  for  classroom  study  in 
public  schools.  Not  that  juvenile  plays  are  wanted; 
quite  the  contrary:  high  school  boys  and  girls  de- 
mand mature,  strong  work,  and  even  if  they  did 
not,  they  should  be  given  nothing  else.  But  for 
classroom  purposes  it  is  not  enough  that  the  plays 
be  well- written.  Any  inclusion  of  characters  of- 
fensive or  indelicate  in  speech  or  act,  any  use  of 
socially  unconventional  situations,  any  stressing 
of  denominational  religious  elements,  must  per- 
force result  in  the  exclusion  of  the  play  containing 
it.  These  considerations  narrow  the  field  greatly, 
and  it  is  further  limited  by  the  requirement  that 
the  characters  be  not  too  difficult  for  the  average 
high  school  student  to  interpret.  Then,  too,  many 
fine  plays  must  be  eliminated  because  they  are  in 
dialect  so  marked  as  not  to  be  readily  understand- 
able by  the  students  and  certainly  not  easily  to  be 
imitated.  Again,  the  spirit  of  a  period  must  not 
be  too  difficult  for  the  students  to  feel  and  to  create; 
for  example,  our  students  could  not  be  expected 
to  appreciate  or  show  the  cynicism  and  polish 
that  should  mark  the  atmosphere  of  a  fashionable 
drawing  room  of  the  Queen  Anne  period.  (The 
atmosphere  of  the  period  plays  in  this  volume  will 
not  be  found  difficult  to  comprehend  or  express.) 
So  much  for  features  that  would  render  composi- 
tions otherwise  good  as  plays  unsuitable  for  class- 
room use.  But  it  is  necessary  that  the  plays 
selected  be  of  really  permanent  value  aside  from 
[xi] 


INTRODUCTION 

their  conformance  to  these  negative  qualifications. 
They  must  have  a  theme  worth  while,  even  if  it 
be  merely  whimsical;  there  must  be  an  innate 
dignity,  arising  from  a  real  truth  to  life,  in  the 
characters,  the  action,  and  the  dialogue;  the  emo- 
tional tone  must  be  sustained  and  not  exaggerated; 
and  the  play  must  produce  a  distinctly  unified 
impression.  The  construction  must  be  simple,  the 
situations  inherently  interesting,  and  the  language 
clear  and  direct  as  well  as  appropriate  to  the  char- 
acters and  the  circumstances. 

The  plays  in  the  present  collection  meet  these 
requirements  and  afford  excellent  examples  of 
what  is  best  in  the  modern  one-act  play.  The  high 
school  students  of  to-day  should  be  the  leaders  in 
public  taste  to-morrow,  and  since  the  drama  is  an 
extremely  important  thing,  from  both  a  literary 
and  an  artistic  standpoint,  we  must  do  what  we  can 
to  form  to-morrow's  public  taste  in  proper  molds. 
An  intimate  acquaintance  with  good  plays  will 
cause  our  students  to  demand  good  plays  for  the 
rest  of  their  lives.  By  "good  plays  "  is  not  meant 
moral  preachments  in  dramatic  form,  but  strong, 
wholesome  treatments  of  life,  with  pathos,  humor, 
and  idealism  blended.  The  one-act  play  is  espe- 
cially effective  for  this  purpose,  in  its  brevity,  con- 
densation, and  intensity  of  dramatic  quality.  It  is 
timely,  too,  for  we  are  living  in  an  age  when  the 
one-act  play  is  assuming  the  same  relation  to  the 
longer  play  that  the  short  story  already  bears  to 
the  novel.  In  schools  where  public  productions  of 
plays  are  staged,  those  plays  should  be  carefully 
[xii] 


INTRODUCTION 

chosen  for  their  real  value,  not  for  their  power  to 
amuse,  merely;  but,  while  considerable,  the  effect 
of  merely  seeing  and  hearing  a  performance  is 
slight  compared  to  the  effect  upon  a  group  of  stu- 
dents of  work  intensively  done  throughout  a  term 
with  really  first-rate  dramatic  material.  Some 
literary  prophets  tell  us  that  we  are  shortly  to  see 
the  drama  assume  the  most  important  place  in 
creative  literature — that  in  the  cycle  of  changing 
tastes  and  interests  it  is  passing  from  its  winter 
of  discontent  into  such  a  glorious  summer  as  it 
enjoyed  in  Elizabethan  days.  However  this  may 
be,  dramatic  composition  is  becoming  more  and 
more  important,  and  we  must  equip  our  pupils 
for  conditions  as  they  will  be,  not  as  they  have 
been. 

The  Method 

The  nature  of  classroom  work  in  dramatic  in- 
terpretation, briefly  summarized  on  page  vii,  will 
be  fully  evident  to  one  who  has  read  Part  I.  There 
the  text  (which  has  been  written  for  the  student) 
embodies  the  matter  for  study  and  implies  the 
method;  the  method  itself  is  explained  in  detail 
in  the  Notes  to  the  Instructor  in  Part  III.  In  their 
work,  the  students  first  read  at  home  the  play  to 
be  studied  and  then  do  the  preliminary  work 
outlined  in  Chapter  I  of  Part  I;  after  this  they  are 
ready  to  take  up  the  detailed  presentation,  in 
which  they  observe  the  principles  expressed  in 
Chapter  II.  No  one  order  in  the  use  of  the  plays 
is  inherently  better  than  another;  indeed,  the  col- 
[xiii] 


INTRODUCTION 

lection  is  so  large  that  the  entire  seven  plays  will 
hardly  be  studied  in  any  one  term. 

The  instructor  is  reminded  that  in  all  its  phases, 
the  study  of  a  play  affords  ample  occasion  for  prac- 
tice in  written  as  well  as  oral  composition,  and  for 
the  development  of  the  principles  of  good  writing. 
All  such  work,  since  it  is  related  to  the  central 
project,  is  thoroughly  motivated.  The  work  of 
interpretation,  too,  provides  wide  opportunity 
for  special  investigations  and  committee  work. 
All  this  is  referred  to  in  the  Notes  to  the  Instructor 
in  Part  III.  These  notes  contain  all  the  suggestions 
that  the  average  teacher  will  welcome,  for  each 
teacher  will  wish  to  follow  his  own  particular  bent; 
the  presentation  of  a  detailed  step-by-step  pro- 
cedure is  unnecessary,  and  its  inclusion  in  the  book 
would  probably  be  resented  by  the  classroom  in- 
structor, who  nevertheless  may  be  glad  to  have  a 
general  plan  suggested  in  work  so  largely  novel  as 
full  dramatic  interpretation  in  the  classroom  is 
at  present.  The  treatment  proposed  in  the  Notes 
has  been  tested  by  practice  at  the  Evander  Childs 
High  School,  and  is  sound  from  the  actor's  stand- 
point as  well  as  from  the  pedagogical  point  of  view. 

The  Work  in  Relation  to  Courses  of  Study 

Work  in  Dramatic  Interpretation  may  be  offered 
as  an  elective  at  any  part  of  the  high  school  course, 
or  the  regular  work  of  a  term  may  be  so  modified 
as  to  make  it  practically  a  dramatic  course  while 
yet  satisfying  the  chief  requirements  of  the  syllabus 
[xiv] 


INTRODUCTION 

for  that  term.  The  latter  is  the  better  plan  where 
elective  courses  do  not  carry  the  "  credits  "  or 
"  points  "  earned  in  regular  courses,  inasmuch  as 
the  benefits  of  work  in  dramatic  interpretation 
should  be  brought  to  all,  and  electives  that  do  not 
carry  "  credits  "  attract  small  numbers. 

Where  the  dramatic  work  is  taken  as  an  elective, 
the  activity  of  the  class  may  be  concerned  solely 
with  the  interpretation  of  the  plays,  and  with 
such  work  in  composition  as  the  instructor  may 
wish  to  base  upon  it.  Where  the  work  is  not  elec- 
tive, the  principal  demands  of  the  syllabus  must 
be  met  in  addition  to  the  special  work;  but  the 
problem  thus  raised  is  not  difficult  of  solution, 
since  dramatic  interpretation  is  not  essentially  so 
different  from  the  usual  English  work  as  it  must 
seem  on  the  surface  to  be.  Study  of  literary  mas- 
terpieces or  of  special  types  of  composition,  formal 
drill,  and  practice  in  various  types  of  written  and 
oral  composition,  are  the  elements  of  all  required 
English  work.  These  elements  are  present  in  the 
work  of  the  dramatic  classes,  though  in  content  and 
emphasis  the  work  of  such  groups  differs  from  that 
of  the  usual  English  class.  Most  syllabuses  call 
for  the  reading  of  particular  books  during  the  sev- 
eral years  of  the  high  school  course;  certain  literary 
forms,  such  as  the  short  story,  must  be  studied; 
and  particular  kinds  of  composition  (argument, 
for  example)  must  be  stressed  at  definite  points 
4n  the  course.  In  addition,  the  study  may  be  re- 
quired of  certain  commercial  or  journalistic  types. 

To  meet  such  requirements,  in  cases  where  the 

[XV] 


INTRODUCTION 

course  of  study  cannot  well  be  altered,  the  dramatic 
work  may  best  be  assigned  to  terms  where  the  in- 
tensive study  of  definite  types  of  composition  is 
not  an  important  feature  of  the  work,  and  where 
the  required  reading  is  in  the  field  of  creative  litera- 
ture rather  than  in  the  field  of  essay,  biography, 
or  argument.  The  required  reading  may  then  be 
done  by  the  dramatic  classes  at  home,  as  supple- 
mentary reading.  To  insure  adequate  care  in  such 
reading,  and  to  provide  any  necessary  testing  of 
the  pupils'  understanding  and  preparation  of  it, 
a  certain  number  of  recitations  may  be  devoted  to 
the  discussion  of  the  supplementary  work.  The 
theory  is  that  a  class  engaged  in  the  special  dramatic 
study,  because  its  work  is  highly  motivated  and 
vitalized,  will  rapidly  develop  a  power  of  literary 
appreciation  and  an  amount  of  enthuasism  so 
great  as  to  enable  it  to  grasp  the  salient  features 
of  any  novel  or  narrative  poem  with  far  greater 
readiness  than  the  same  pupils  would  show  if  they 
had  been  doing  the  less  thoroughly  motivated 
work  of  the  usual  type  of  literary  study.  Then, 
too,  when  the  "  required  "  books  are  discussed, 
the  methods  of  the  dramatic  work  may  to  a  con- 
siderable extent  be  applied;  for  example,  the  con- 
sideration of  any  such  book  may  be  regarded  as 
something  of  a  project,  the  discussion  being  divided 
into  problems  of  plot,  characterization,  atmosphere, 
setting,  costumes,  scenery,  and  diction.  Parts  of 
the  book  may  also  be  dramatized. 

With  classes  engaged  in  the  dramatic  work,  any 
amount  of  both  written  and  oral  composition  can 
[xvi] 


INTRODUCTION 

easily  be  related  to  some  phase  or  other  of  the  main 
project  (which  is  the  complete  interpretation  of 
the  play  that  is  being  studied),  and  such  composi- 
tion will  be  motivated  and  vitalized  to  a  degree 
hardly  possible  with  the  usual  classroom  work. 
And  any  study  deemed  necessary  in  the  field  of 
sentence,  paragraph,  or  theme  structure,  or  in 
matters  of  spelling,  punctuation,  pronunciation, 
or  enunciation,  will  reflect  the  interest  in  the  larger 
problem,  and  so  will  be  vitalized  to  an  extent  im- 
possible where  formal  work  is  its  own  excuse  for 
being. 

At  the  Evander  Childs  High  School,  the  work  in 
dramatic  interpretation  is  offered  in  the  Fifth 
and  Sixth  Terms  of  the  eight-term  course.  It 
counts  the  same  toward  the  student's  graduation 
as  the  usual  type  of  English  in  those  terms,  and 
each  pupil  is  free  to  choose  either  the  dramatic 
or  the  non-dramatic  type.  In  the  dramatic  classes 
one  period  a  week  is  devoted  to  "  required  "  read- 
ing of  a  non-dramatic  nature,  one  period  is  set 
aside  for  composition  work  based  on  the  dramatic 
interpretation,  and  two  periods  are  devoted  to  the 
study  of  the  plays.  Thus  the  classes  meet  the  syl- 
labus requirements  in  literature  and  formal  Eng- 
lish, and  at  the  same  time  take  the  project  work 
in  dramatic  interpretation.  The  students  of  these 
classes  have  easily  held  their  own  in  all  English 
examinations,  and  have  established  a  reputation 
for  initiative  and  thoroughness  in  their  English 
work. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  touch  here  upon  the  matter 
[xvii] 


INTRODUCTION 

of  the  relative  values  of  the  interpretation  of  dra- 
matic composition  and  the  dramatization  of  pieces 
of  literature  non-dramatic  in  form.  A  question 
on  this  point  is  frequently  raised  when  work  in 
dramatics  is  under  discussion.  Where  a  good  play 
is  acted,  the  subject-matter  has  a  high  value  as 
literature;  but  where  the  students  dramatize 
parts  of  novels  or  poems,  the  final  form  is  merely 
the  students'  own  composition.  In  the  latter  type 
of  work,  the  fine  strokes  of  characterization  and  the 
perfect  fitness  of  the  diaglogue,  which  are  features 
of  a  well-written  play,  are  lacking.  An  amount  of 
seriousness  of  effort  on  the  students'  part  attaches 
to  the  study  and  acting  of  a  play,  which  cannot 
be  expected  where  the  students  change  the  form 
from  the  narrative  to  the  dramatic;  in  the  latter 
case,  the  boys  and  girls  cannot  but  feel  that  they 
are  working  at  an  exercise,  while  in  the  former  type 
of  work  they  realize  that  they  are  facing  a  problem 
that  has  the  dignity  attaching  to  the  work  of  a 
profession.  Then,  too,  where  a  novel  or  short  story 
is  dramatized,  the  dramatic  interpretation  is  only 
one  feature  of  the  classroom  work,  for  the  narrative 
is  first  studied  as  a  narrative — something  quite 
different  from  the  dramatization.  But  where  the 
work  is  with  a  play,  "  the  play's  the  thing  "  at 
all  stages  of  the  class's  activity,  and  the  acting 
is  correspondingly  important  in  the  eyes  of  the 
students. 


xviii] 


PART  I 

Classroom  Work  With  a  Plat 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  PRELIMINARY  STUDY  OF  A  PLAY 

The  interpretation  of  a  play  is  a  two-fold  process. 
We  must  consider  what  we  are  to  express  in  our 
acting,  and  then  we  must  express  it.  This  is  truly 
a  double  process  rather  than  two  separate  ones, 
for  the  detailed  study  of  what  to  present  goes  step 
by  step  with  the  detailed  study  of  how  to  present 
it.  Nevertheless,  we  must  have  a  preliminary  study 
of  the  play  as  a  whole  before  we  plan  our  work  in 
detail.  Such  a  consideration  of  the  play  in  its 
entirety  gives  us  at  the  outset  an  understanding 
of  the  atmosphere  or  tone  of  the  play,  a  realization 
of  the  setting,  a  knowledge  of  the  drift  of  the  action 
and  of  what  the  play  means  as  a  whole,  and  a  con- 
ception of  the  characters  as  distinct  personalities. 
This  preliminary  study  of  the  play  follows  the 
first  reading,  which  we  shall  suppose  that  we  have 
done  at  home. 

In  our  treatment  of  the  interpretation  of  a  play 
in  the  classroom,  we  shall  consider  first  this  general, 
preliminary  study,  and  then  take  up  the  detailed 
consideration  of  just  what  to  express  and  how  to 
express  it. 

1.   The  Plot 

In  working  with  a  one-act  play,  we  must  realize 
that  we  have  to  do  with  a  very  unified  composition. 
[3] 


THE  CLASSROOM  STUDY 

A  longer  play  has  often  several  threads  of  plot; 
one  such  thread,  for  example,  may  deal  with  char- 
acters and  incidents  that  exist  merely  to  afford  con- 
trast with  the  characters  and  incidents  on  another 
thread;  perhaps  one  set  of  people  does  and  says 
comic  things  to  offset  the  more  serious  speech 
and  action  of  a  more  important  group,  with  the 
result  that  there  may  be  an  alternating  of  dignified 
and  intense  situations  with  those  that  are  merely 
amusing.  So  it  is  with  a  novel.  But  it  is  not  so 
with  a  short  story,  where  all  the  elements  are  cal- 
culated to  make  vivid  the  one  unified  impression 
that  the  author  seeks  to  make.  In  its  unity  the 
one-act  play  is  like  the  short  story,  for  characters, 
action,  circumstances,  setting,  and  dialogue,  make 
a  firmly  knit,  unified  appeal:  there  is  one  problem 
or  difficulty  presented  for  solution,  and  all  the  forces 
of  character,  circumstance,  and  incident  drive 
straight  to  that  solution.  The  development  of  these 
forces  to  the  proper  end  of  the  play  is  the  plot. 
And  let  us  remember  that  the  end  is  the  end  not 
merely  because  the  play  stops  there,  but  because 
it  is  the  point  at  which  all  the  forces  reach  their 
focus,  and  consequently  the  point  where  the  play 
must  end  or  trail  off  into  an  anti-climax.  To  clarify 
our  understanding  of  a  play  after  a  first  reading,  ( 
it  is  very  helpful  to  summarize  the  plot;  to  do  this 
let  us  ask  ourselves,  "  What  is  the  problem  pre- 
sented in  the  play,  and  how  is  it  solved?  "  Thus, 
in  "  Two  Crooks  and  a  Lady,"  we  may  state  as  a 
synopsis  of  the  plot  that  it  deals  with  the  struggle 
between  Mrs.  Simms-Vane  and  the  crooks  for  the 
[4] 


OF  A  PLAY 

possession  of  the  diamonds,  and  that  the  lady  saves 
her  necklace  by  setting  the  two  crooks  in  opposition 
to  each  other,  playing  first  upon  the  greed  of  one, 
then  upon  the  jealousy  of  the  other,  until  the  two 
malefactors  are  brought  into  a  conflict  that  ends  in 
their  undoing. 

Such  a  brief  outlining  of  the  main  feature  of  the 
plot  may  be  enough  to  make  us  sure  that  we  have 
understood  the  drift  of  the  action  of  the  play.  We 
may,  however,  wish  to  make  a  somewhat  more 
complete  analysis  of  the  plot. 

Most  plays  begin  with  an  explanation  of  some 
sort,  which  is  called  the  exposition.  By  the  action 
or  the  conversation  that  starts  the  play,  the  au- 
dience is  put  into  possession  of  certain  circum- 
stances, a  knowledge  of  which  it  must  have  in  order 
to  understand  the  play.  Then — perhaps  at  the 
same  time  that  the  exposition  is  being  given — 
begins  the  so-called  rising  action.  Every  play 
is  a  more  or  less  clearly  defined  struggle  of  some 
sort:  it  may  be  a  conflict  of  opposing  personalities; 
it  may  be  a  struggle  of  one  or  more  individuals 
against  his  or  their  own  weakness  or  against  the 
forces  of  law,  tradition,  custom,  prejudice;  or  it 
may  be  merely  the  attempt  of  one  or  more  persons 
to  gain  certain  ends  against  ordinary  and  usual 
obstacles.  In  a  play,  if  the  individual  in  whom  the 
audience  is  most  interested  is  to  be  eventually 
successful,  his  difficulties  will  at  first  appear  to 
master  him,  and  we  wonder  how  he  can  win  to  his 
goal.  Conversely,  if  the  hero  is  to  fail,  the  audience 
sees  him  successful  at  the  start  of  the  play.  This 
[5] 


THE  CLASSROOM  STUDY 

part  of  the  development  is  the  rising  action.  Then 
something  happens  to  change  the  current  of  the 
hero's  fortunes,  or  the  audience  learns  that  some- 
thing did  happen  previously  which  they  now  see 
will  effect  that  change.  This  turning  point  is  the 
dramatic  climax.  From  this  point  on,  we  have  the 
so-called  falling  action,  in  the  course  of  which  the 
hero's  fortunes  develop  along  the  channel  into 
which  they  were  turned  by  the  dramatic  climax. 
The  falling  action  is  fully  developed  at  the  climax 
of  interest,  where  the  operation  of  the  various  forces 
of  incident  and  character  come  to  a  head,  and  the 
end  is  then  in  sight.  The  actual  working  out  of 
the  end  may  be  left  to  the  imagination  of  the  au- 
dience; if  it  is  not,  we  have  the  denouement  or 
ending. 

If  we  take  the  time  to  analyze  our  play  into  ex- 
position,  rising  action,  turning  point,  falling  ac- 
tion, and  ending,  we  of  course  have  a  better  under- 
standing of  the  plot  than  if  we  merely  summarize 
the  main  thread  of  incident.  But  we  should  make 
some  synopsis  of  the  plot  as  our  first  step  in  the 
general  study  of  our  play. 

2.  The  Theme 

In  creating  its  single  impression,  the  one-act 
play  deals  with  a  single  group  of  characters  reacting 
upon  one  another  in  a  closely  connected  set  of 
situations  that  are  pointed  to  a  single  climax  of 
interest.  But  a  good  one-act  play  will  show  upon 
examination  something  more  fundamental  than 
[6] 


OF  A  PLAY 

the  story  that  it  tells.  After  reading  "  Two  Crooks 
and  a  Lady,"  for  example,  we  might  say  that  the 
play  is  about  the  struggle  of  the  "Lady"  to  keep 
her  necklace  from  the  "Crooks."  This  is  true.  But 
perhaps  we  can  see  something  more  underlying  than 
this,  of  which  this  struggle  is  the  embodiment  and 
the  expression.  We  should  be  right  in  saying  that 
the  play  has  to  do  with  the  superiority  of  trained 
intelligence  backed  by  character,  over  mere  clever- 
ness clouded  by  passion  and  moral  weakness.  Each 
of  these  two  statements  would  be  right,  but  they 
would  deal  with  different  elements.  The  first 
statement  refers  to  what  happens;  that  is,  to  the 
plot.  The  second  refers  to  what  is  called  the 
theme.  The  theme  is  the  fundamental  idea  t' 
must,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  have  been  in 
the  author's  mind  in  order  to  enable  him  to  give 
form  and  direction  to  the  elements  of  his  play. 
Perhaps  the  dramatist  sets  out  merely  to  arouse 
certain  feelings  within  us;  perhaps  he  is  concerned 
with  showing  us  some  truth  about  life  in  general, 
or  some  trait  of  human  nobility  or  human  frailty; 
perhaps  he  wishes  to  present  some  problem  of  life. 
Whatever  it  is,  and  whether  or  not  we  are  sure  we 
can  find  it,  there  must  be  a  theme  underlying  any 
well-unified  play.  But  the  theme  is  not  the  plot. 
In  its  interest  for  us  and  in  its  hold  upon  us,  the 
plot  may  far  transcend  the  theme;  but  the  latter 
is  necessary  to  give  the  plot  a  proper  rooting  in 
life  itself,  without  which  the  play  can  be  only  of 
superficial  value. 

The  average  spectator  at  a  performance  of  "  Two 
17] 


THE  CLASSROOM  STUDY 

Crooks  and  a  Lady"  may  be  interested  wholly 
in  the  plucky  struggle  of  the  "  Lady  "  in  what 
seems  to  him  at  first  a  hopeless  fight,  and  he  may 
not  look  for  or  care  for  the  existence  of  any  theme 
at  all.  But  for  even  that  spectator,  the  play  has 
a  richer  meaning  if  he  does  see  its  fundamental 
significance,  the  theme.  And  for  us  who  act  the 
play,  the  value  of  realizing  the  theme  is,  of  course, 
even  greater;  for  with  this  realization  of  what  the 
theme  is,  we  can  view  our  work  in  a  truer  perspec- 
tive than  otherwise.  Let  us  say,  then,  that  the 
second  matter  for  us  to  consider,  after  reading  a 
play  through,  is  What  is  the  theme? 

3.  The  Atmosphere 

Next  let  us  consider  the  emotional  tone  or  at- 
mosphere  of  our  play.  If  the  author's  work  has 
been  well  done,  it  creates  a  unified  emotional  effect 
upon  the  reader.  In  other  words,  where  such  a 
play  is  properly  acted,  an  audience  will  find  itself 
feeling  in  some  one  predominant  mood  all  the  way 
through,  barring  some  occasional  flashes  of  other 
emotions  that  the  dramatist  may  deliberately 
arouse  for  the  sake  of  contrast.  In  Miss  Holman's 
"  Will  o'  the  Wisp  "  we  experience  at  the  beginning 
an  eerie  feeling  of  strangeness:  we  are  at  the  "  land's 
end,"  where  we  are  away  from  the  wonted  things  of 
civilization,  and  where  only  the  poet  and  the  old 
countrywoman  (who  has  been  born  and  bred  in  the 
place  and  is  as  much  a  part  of  it  as  is  her  moor) 
are  happy  or  even  safe.    This  feeling  is  sustained 

r  si 


OF  A  PLAY 

throughout  the  play,  and  is  gradually  intensified, 
until  at  the  end  we  are  prepared  to  find  that  the 
Pale-faced  Girl  is  the  very  "  Will  o'  the  Wisp  "  it- 
self. The  exclamations  and  remonstrances  of 
Nora  may  seem  comic  when  given  in  dialect,  but 
they  do  not  shatter  the  spell;  rather  they  intensify 
it,  as  twinkling  lights  seen  at  a  distance  from  a 
lonely  and  dangerous  road  intensify  the  darkness 
that  surrounds  the  traveler,  while  they  hint  of  the 
homely,  customary  commonplaces  of  wonted  ex- 
perience. This  matter  of  tone  is  of  the  utmost 
importance,  for  a  play  will  be  entirely  effective 
only  when  the  actors  create  just  the  right  atmos- 
phere, and  many  plays  are  quite  ruined  unless  they 
are  played  in  exactly  the  right  emotional  tone. 
"  The  Turtle  Dove  "  would  be  ineffective  if  played 
as  a  broad  farce.  There  must  be  a  whimsical  grace 
in  its  humor,  a  smile,  but  not  a  laugh,  in  its  con- 
scious make-believe.  The  bored  manner  of  the 
Property  Man  is  obviously  an  offset  to  the  impossi- 
bilities of  the  piece,  and  serves  as  a  guarantee  to 
the  audience  that  it  is  not  asked  to  believe  the  play, 
but  only  to  sympathize  with  the  quaint  presenta- 
tion of  the  romance.  The  acting  of  a  play  should 
be  a  piece  of  team-work,  and  if  it  is  to  be  success- 
ful, every  player  must  work  toward  producing 
one  main,  unified  emotional  effect  upon  the  au- 
dience, whether  that  audience  be  a  public  gath- 
ering or  members  of  his  own  class.  We  may  have 
differing  ideas  of  what  the  proper  tone  is  in  which 
to  act  a  given  play;  but  when  we  have  reached  a 
decision,  we  should  all  loyally  do  our  work  in  the 
[9] 


THE  CLASSROOM  STUDY 

key  determined  upon.  Enough  has  been  said  in 
the  matter  of  the  illustrations  just  given  to  show 
that  it  is  not  meant  that  each  of  us  is  to  act  and 
speak  so  as  to  produce  in  his  individual  work  an 
effect  identical  with  that  produced  by  every  other 
player;  but  each  should  bear  clearly  in  mind  the 
general  effect  to  be  attained,  and  should  make  sure 
that  his  own  work  will  suit  that.  Perhaps  ours  is  a 
comic  part  in  an  essentially  pathetic  play;  then  we 
must  see  that  the  comedy  in  our  part  is  for  some 
purpose  of  heightening  the  pathetic  tone  of  the 
whole,  either  by  contrast  or  by  affording  relief  lest 
the  pathetic  lose  its  poignancy  by  continuous  itera- 
tion; having  seen  the  purpose  of  our  comedy,  we 
must  act  accordingly  and  not  selfishly  develop 
farcical  possibilities  in  our  role,  which  might  bring 
laughter  and  applause  from  the  audience,  but  which 
would  make  the  judicious  grieve  and  spoil  the  play. 
After  judging  the  plot  and  the  theme  of  our  play, 
we  should,  as  a  third  step  in  our  study  of  the  play 
as  a  whole,  Determine  the  emotional  tone. 

4.  The  Setting 

We  should  now  consider  the  physical  background 
that  the  dramatist  intended  for  his  play,  and  the 
dress  he  meant  the  characters  to  wear.  This  con- 
sideration will  help  us  to  understand  the  atmos- 
phere, to  see  in  our  mind's  eye  the  men  and  women 
that  the  dramatist  created,  and  to  picture  the  ac- 
tion of  the  play.  In  our  classroom  work,  since  we 
can  not  supply  either  the  proper  scenery  or  the 
[10] 


OF  A  PLAY 

proper  costumes,  we  are  spared  the  work  of  at- 
tempting an  adequate  representation  of  back- 
ground or  dress.  Still,  we  may  wish  to  provide 
some  slight  suggestion  of  scenery  or  of  costuming, 
and  our  problem  may  become  the  two-fold  one  of 
first  calling  into  being  mental  pictures  of  what 
the  setting  and  costumes  would  be  were  the  play 
itself  really  lived  as  the  dramatist  conceived  it, 
and  then  suggesting  in  the  simplest  way  possible 
representations  of  the  most  important  features  of 
background  and  dress. 

Certainly,  we  must  try  to  conceive  these  mat- 
ters as  the  dramatist  pictured  them.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  the  author  will  probably  tell  us  what  the 
scene  should  be,  and  we  have  merely  to  translate 
his  word  pictures  into  mental  ones,  in  which  we 
can  seem  to  see  the  particular  room,  house,  garden, 
bit  of  woods,  or  whatever  the  physical  background 
is.  However,  if  such  a  background  is  described 
as  we  have  never  seen,  we  should  do  well  to  try 
to  find  pictures  of  something  similar.  The  same 
with  the  costumes.  A  style  of  dress  may  be  en- 
tirely familiar  to  us;  but  if  it  is  not,  we  should  seek 
detailed  descriptions  or  illustrations.  Perhaps  such 
simple  books  will  be  available  as  Constance  Mack- 
ay's  "  Costumes  and  Scenery  for  Amateurs,"  or 
Milicent  Stone's  "The  Bankside  Costume  Book 
for  Children/' — which,  by  the  way,  is  not  at  all  a 
juvenile  book.  Very  likely  the  Art  Department 
in  the  school  could  help,  and  there  may  easily 
be  pictures  at  home  or  in  the  school  that  would 
prove  useful.  Illustrated  editions  of  well-known 
fill 


THE  CLASSROOM  STUDY 

works  of  literature,  and  histories  that  contain 
pictures,  may  be  of  great  assistance.  Perhaps  in 
the  nearest  public  library  we  could  find  the  help 
we  need.  While  we  are  considering  the  costumes, 
it  is  well  to  imagine  the  build,  features,  and  pre- 
dominant facial  expression  of  the  persons  in  the 
play,  so  that  for  each  we  may  have  a  full-length 
mental  portrait,  even  though  it  be  but  roughly 
sketched.  Perhaps  the  class  will  determine  the 
color  scheme  for  a  play — especially  a  play  like 
"  The  Turtle  Dove,"  where  a  dainty  effect  is  de- 
sirable. Such  a  color  effect,  borne  in  mind  by  the 
students,  will  help  them  to  create  the  needed  at- 
mosphere. The  lighting  should  also  be  decided 
upon:  does  the  action  take  place  in  full  daylight, 
or  by  electric  light,  or  by  lamplight,  or  by  candle- 
light, or  by  moonlight?  And  does  the  light  change 
in  the  course  of  the  play?  It  is  important  to  know 
all  this,  even  though  we  cannot  even  darken  the 
classroom  for  our  actual  work  with  a  play  that 
should  be  given  in  dim  light. 

But  it  is  possible  that  we  may  be  able  actually 
to  represent  some  features  of  the  physical  back- 
ground and  the  costuming.  This  does  not  mean 
that  we  should  try  to  imitate  any  part  of  them 
closely.  There  are  times  when  a  shawl  or  a  hat 
may  help  us  a  great  deal  in  our  make-believe,  and 
if  we  can  provide  anything  of  the  sort  that  will 
be  of  help  to  us,  we  should  plan  out  in  the  pre- 
liminary study  of  the  costuming  just  what  such 
.  devices  we  can  use.  So  with  the  scenery:  perhaps 
we  can  suggest  walls  by  screens  or  by  movable 
[12] 


OF  A  PLAY 

blackboards;  we  may  be  able  to  use  a  table  where 
one  is  called  for  in  the  play;  probably  we  can  have 
all  the  chairs  we  need.  Any  practical  device  that 
will  help  us  to  make  our  acting  definite  as  to  loca- 
tion on  the  classroom  "stage,"  should  be  suggested 
when  we  are  imagining  the  full  setting  as  the  dra- 
matist conceived  it. 

What  has  been  said  about  scenery  and  cos- 
tumes applies  to  properties.  Properties  in  a  play 
are  articles  that  are  not  part  of  the  scenery  or 
the  costuming.  A  weapon,  a  book,  or  a  hand-bag, 
for  example,  are  properties.  In  our  preliminary 
study,  we  should  not  only  picture  the  properties 
along  with  the  physical  background  and  the  dress 
of  the  persons  in  the  play,  but  we  ought  to  consider 
the  matter  of  actually  representing  the  important 
properties,  for  this  can  easily  be  done.  A  long  ruler 
or  a  pointer  can  represent  a  sword,  for  example, 
and  sometimes  members  of  the  class  would  be  glad 
to  bring  or  make  the  real  properties  themselves. 

Thus  for  the  fourth  step  in  our  study  of  the 
play  as  a  whole,  we  must  Consider  the  setting.  We 
must  imagine  the  physical  background  (including 
lighting  and  perhaps  the  color  scheme),  the  cos- 
tuming, and  the  properties,  and  we  should  devise 
any  simple  representations  of  these  features  that 
are  practical. 

5.  The  Characters 

Our  plays  deal  with  people,  and  our  general  im- 
pression of  each  person  must  be  right  or  our  cal- 
culation of  his  or  her  influence  in  the  play  will  be 
[13] 


THE  CLASSROOM  STUDY 

inaccurate.  It  is  well  to  make  up  our  minds, 
therefore,  as  to  what  sort  of  man  or  woman  each 
person  in  the  play  is.  This  is  a  matter  of  deter- 
mining what  qualities  seem  to  be  the  most  strongly 
marked  in  each  person's  nature,  and  what  his  or 
her  general  outlook  on  life  is.  In  other  words,  we 
should  decide  what  general  way  of  thinking  and 
feeling  is  typical  of  each  character.  (For  con- 
venience, we  shall  follow  in  this  book  the  practice 
of  referring  to  the  people  in  a  play  as  characters. 
This  is  a  technical  use  of  the  word,  of  course,  for 
ordinarily  the  term  denotes  the  sum  of  a  person's 
qualities.)  We  cannot  reach  a  complete  estimate 
of  the  characters  after  a  first  reading  of  the  play, 
but  to  prepare  ourselves  to  begin  the  detailed  in- 
terpretation we  do  not  need  complete  characteriza- 
tions so  much  as  judgments  that  are  accurate  in 
the  main,  although  they  may  be  incomplete.  As 
the  fifth  division  of  our  preliminary  study,  then, 
we  should  Determine  about  what  sort  of  man  or 
woman  each  character  is. 

6.  Music 

The  final  step  in  the  preliminary  study  of  a  play 
is  the  consideration  of  the  music  that  we  should 
have  for  our  presentation.  In  many  cases  no  music 
will  be  called  for;  but  where  it  is,  we  should  de- 
termine what  effects  are  desirable  and  how  we 
can  secure  them.  Sometimes  only  singing  is  re- 
quired; if  the  music  for  this  is  supplied  by  the 
dramatist,  our  difficulties  are  slight.  Where  in- 
[14] 


OF  A  PLAY 

strumental  music  is  indicated,  we  must  determine 
what  instruments  should  be  played  to  give  the 
effect  the  dramatist  had  in  mind,  and  how  loud 
and  how  rapid  the  playing  should  be.  There  will 
doubtless  be  at  least  one  member  of  the  class  who 
can  bring  an  instrument  to  school  and  play  it. 
Where  the  music — either  vocal  or  instrumental— 
is  not  printed  with  the  play,  we  must  supply  it. 
Possibly  one  of  us  can  compose  something  ap- 
propriate; if  not,  we  must  decide  what  composi- 
tions or  parts  of  compositions  would  be  appropriate. 


[15] 


CHAPTER  II 

DETAILED   INTERPRETATION 

When  our  preliminary  study  of  the  play  as  a 
whole  has  been  completed,  we  are  ima  position  to 
begin  the  detailed  work  of  presentation.  We  know 
what  the  play  is  about,  with  what  truth  or  aspect 
of  life  it  is  concerned,  in  what  spirit  or  tone  it  is 
to  be  performed,  what  the  setting  should  be,  and 
about  how  we  can  suggest  the  costuming  and  the 
physical  background;  we  know,  too,  what  kind  of 
men  and  women  the  characters  are  in  the  main. 

But  these  ideas  are  general,  and  acting  calls  for 
a  definite  expression  of  definite  ideas  and  feelings; 
we  must,  therefore,  study  certain  phases  of  our  prob- 
lem more  in  detail  than  we  have  so  far  done;  these 
phases  are  the  force  and  relative  importance  of  the 
various  parts  of  the  play,  the  matter  of  realizing 
the  setting,  the  clear  conception  of  the  characters 
as  distinct  personalities,  and  the  determination  of 
the  ideas  and  feelings  that  the  several  characters 
entertain  at  each  stage  of  their  activity. 

Moreover,  we  must  know  how  to  express  ef- 
fectively the  results  of  these  detailed  studies.  This 
matter  of  expression  constitutes  the  objective  part 
of  the  player's  work;  as  players  we  must  express 
ourselves  in  two  ways:  in  our  speech  and  in  our 
action — what  we  may  call  the  auditory  appeal 
and  the  visual  appeal.  The  auditory  appeal  is  the 
[161 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

oral  delivery  of  our  lines,  and  the  visual  appeal 
comprises  facial  expression,  gesticulation,  and 
bodily  movement.  If  our  expression  is  to  be  effect- 
ive, we  must  observe  the  principles  that  underlie 
effective  oral  delivery  and  effective  action.  In 
other  words,  we  must  study  the  technique  of  ex- 
pression. 

Then,  too,  as  players,  we  must  do  our  work  as 
members  of  a  group  with  full  realization  of  how 
we  can  help  the  efforts  of  the  others  in  the  cast; 
for  acting  is  essentially  team-work. 

In  this  chapter  we  shall  consider  these  several 
matters  under  the  following  headings:  The  Situa- 
tions, Realizing  the  Setting,  Getting  Inside  the 
Character,  Acting  as  Team-work,  The  Auditory 
Appeal,  and  The  Visual  Appeal. 

1.  The  Situations 

Our  study  of  the  plot  showed  us  that  in  any  play 
there  is  one  main  problem  or  struggle.  In  a  one- 
act  play  the  dramatist  presents  this  almost  at 
once,  and  works  out  the  solution  in  the  rest  of  the 
play.  This  problem  is  the  mainspring  of  the 
dramatic  action,  and  the  importance  of  circum- 
stances and  characters  is  determined  by  their 
relation  to  it.  If  we  are  to  give  the  right  emphasis 
and  interpretation  to  the  several  parts  of  the  play, 
we  must  see  them  in  their  proper  perspective,  an,d 
their  perspective  is  determined  by  their  relation  to 
the  central  problem. 

The  well-written  one-act  play  is  a  unit,  because 
[171 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

every  bit  of  dialogue  and  action  is  related  to  the 
central  problem.  And  yet  every  one-act  play  is 
made  up  of  a  series  of  what  are  called  situations. 
These  are  not  to  be  confused  with  scenes.  A  situa- 
tion arises  whenever  a  definite  relation  is  created 
between  characters,  or  whenever  a  character  re- 
acts in  a  definite  way  to  circumstance.  In  other 
words,  a  situation  is  a  state  of  relation  between 
characters,  or  between  characters  and  the  circum- 
stances that  affect  them.  As  soon  as  that  relation 
is  altered,  there  is  a  new  situation.  In  a  play,  as  in 
a  bit  of  life  itself,  the  relation  of  people  to  each 
other  or  of  people  to  conditions,  is  continually 
changing;  however,  we  do  not  call  anything  but  a 
pretty  clearly  defined  relation  a  situation,  and  a 
number  of  faintly  distinguished  relations  may  be 
grouped  together  to  form  one  situation  that  will 
be  dominated  by  a  distinct  relation  between  the 
forces  of  character  and  circumstance.  Since  each 
situation  has  its  dominant  relation,  it  forms  a 
definite  part  of  the  play.  It  follows,  therefore,  that 
we  should  analyze  our  play  into  its  component 
situations  in  order  to  be  able  to  emphasize  the  par- 
ticular force  of  each  at  the  same  time  that  we  keep 
the  spirit  and  dramatic  action  of  each  part  of  the 
play  in  general  harmony  with  the  tone  of  the  play 
as  a  whole.* 

To  illustrate  the  analysis  of  a  play  into  its  various 

♦The  definition  presented  here  of  the  "situation"  is  that 
which  Professor  B.  Roland  Lewis  gives  in  his  book,  "The 
Technique  of  the  One-Act  Play."  His  treatment  of  the 
"situation"  and  the  "theme"  is  full,  and  will  be  found  very 
helpful. 

[18] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

situations,  take  the  start  of  "  Two  Crooks  and  a 
Lady."  We  may  say  that  Miller's  first  appearance 
is  the  first  situation;  that  the  second  begins  at  the 
entrance  of  Lucille  and  covers  the  dialogue  be- 
tween her  and  Miller;  that  the  third  extends  to 
Miss  Jones's  exit;  that  the  fourth  runs  from  the 
reappearance  of  Miller  to  Lucille* s  going  out  for  the 
milk;  that  the  fifth  consists  of  Mrs.  Simms-Vane's 
talk  with  Miller  up  to  his  taking  of  the  stamp-box; 
that  the  talk  between  Miller  and  Lucille  upon  the 
latter's  return  marks  the  sixth  situation,  and  so  on. 
Some  situations  contain  the  so-called  "  big 
moments  "  of  the  play.  They  are  the  situations 
that  contain  the  major  and  minor  climaxes  of  in- 
terest, and  the  success  of  the  play  largely  depends 
upon  the  intensity  with  which  these  situations 
grip  the  audience.  But  it  is  bad  art  for  us  to  act — 
as  some  professionals  as  well  as  amateurs  occasion- 
ally do — as  if  these  were  the  only  parts  of  the  play 
that  called  for  our  best  work.  From  a  standpoint 
of  dramatic  appeal  they  are  more  important  than 
the  other  situations,  but  we  must  lavish  no  less 
care  on  the  correct  and  artistic  enacting  of  the  least 
interesting  bit  of  preliminary  exposition  or  char- 
acter drawing  than  upon  the  "  big  moments." 
The  "  big  "  situations,  however,  contain  the  high 
lights  of  the  play,  and  consequently  we  must  lead 
up  to  them.  In  other  words,  we  must  keep  in) 
mind  the  relative  importance  of  the  several  situa- 
tions of  the  play.  This  is  a  matter  of  scaling  our 
emphasis,  but  not  of  scaling  our  care.  We  must 
shade  our  work  so  that  it  becomes  most  intense 
[19] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

in  the  intense  moments.  An  example  is  furnished 
by  the  r61e  of  Winwood  in  "  Allison's  Lad."  If  we 
play  Winwood  at  the  start  of  the  play  with  as 
strong  feeling  as  we  show  when  he  loses  in  the  fatal 
dicing  and  prepares  for  his  death,  we  detract  not 
only  from  the  artistic  performance  of  our  own  role, 
but  from  the  force  of  one  of  the  most  dramatic 
situations  of  the  play.  The  dramatically  unim- 
pressive situations,  in  other  words,  we  must  give 
in  a  lower  emotional  tone  than  we  employ  in  the 
climaxes  of  interest.  To  do  this  properly  may  call 
for  even  more  art  than  is  needed  to  show  the  tense- 
ness of  the  "  big  moments."  In  every  play,  gener- 
ally at  the  start,  there  is  more  or  less  exposition; 
the  dramatic  interest  is  slight,  and  the  need  for 
skilful  presentation  correspondingly  great.  We 
must  work  hard  in  such  situations,  but  we  must 
have  the  more  intense  moments  in  mind.  This 
scaling  of  the  emphasis  may  be  a  very  difficult 
thing  to  secure  in  the  classroom  Work,  and  too 
much  attention  should  not  be  given  it.  But  a 
monotony  of  emphasis  is  inartistic. 

2.  Realizing  the  Setting 

Acting  is  sometimes  denned  as  "  making  be- 
lieve." This  is  not  a  good  definition  if  "  making 
believe  "  implies  the  fooling  of  the  audience  rather 
than  the  doing  of  the  player's  work  so  convincingly 
that  the  audience  must  "  believe  "  because  of  the 
sincerity  of  the  performance.  But  if  "  making 
believe  "  applies  to  the  player  rather  than  to  the 
[20] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

audience,  the  definition  covers  an  important  phase 
of  acting.  Indeed,  the  player,  to  be  effective, 
must  make  himself  "  believe,"  to  a  considerable 
extent,  that  he  is  the  character  he  impersonates 
and  that  he  is  the  character  in  the  conditions  and 
surroundings  of  the  play.  If  he  does  not  do  this, 
his  work  will  lack  sincerity  and  conviction. 

One  part  of  the  player's  effort  to  make  his  work' 
real  to  him  concerns  an  endeavor  to  realize  the 
setting.  As  players,  we  should  try  to  see  in  the 
actual  setting  of  the  stage  the  physical  background 
as  we  imagine  the  dramatist  to  have  conceived  it. 
If  we  are  supposed  to  be  in  an  old-fashioned  room 
such  as  that  imagined  by  the  author  of  "  Allison's 
Lad,"  we  must  feel  ourselves  there  and  not  else- 
where. We  shall  be  greatly  helped  in  this  by  imag- 
ining in  detail  the  walls,  the  ceiling,  the  furniture, 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  furnishings.  Are  there  beams 
in  the  ceiling?  Is  there  a  wainscoting?  Are  the 
windows  made  of  many  small  panes?  Are  there 
casements  to  the  windows?  Are  there  candles  in 
the  room?  And  where  are  they?  And  of  what  kind 
are  they?  Is  there  a  low  shelf  around  the  room? 
If  so,  are  there  pewter  dishes  upon  it?  Just  where 
is  the  table?  And  of  what  shape  is  it?  Are  there 
chairs  or  stools,  or  both?  And  what  shape  are  they? 
Is  there  a  fire-place?  Where  is  it?  How  large  is  it? 
And  are  there  logs  burning  there?  What  is  the 
tone  of  the  room — cozy?  somber?  dreary?  Here 
the  few  suggestions  we  have  made  in  the  course  of 
our  preliminary  study  will  help  us,  but  as  players 
we  must  see  the  room  and  the  objects  in  it;  and  if 
[21] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

we  cannot  visualize  the  scene,  and  feel  the  objects 
we  are  to  touch,  our  work  must  suffer. 

We  must  also  see  the  other  players  as  the  char- 
acters they  are  representing.  Are  they  large  men 
or  small?  What  is  their  bearing — erect?  easy? 
constrained?  Are  they  mean-looking,  or  noble, 
or  commonplace?  What  color  is  the  hair  of  each? 
And  how  is  it  cut  or  dressed?  What  is  each  mani 
wearing?  What  is  the  material?  How  is  it  cut? 
And  what  color  is  it? 

Again,  we  must  visualize  the  properties.  Is  this 
school  pen  a  quill  pen?  Is  the  ordinary  glass  ink- 
well an  ink  horn?  Is  the  pocket-book  a  heavy 
leather  wallet  with  a  strap?  Is  the  pistol  a  heavy 
weapon  with  a  wooden  handle  ornamented  with  a 
strip  of  silver?  If  that  long  ruler  is  a  sword,  is  it  a 
slender  rapier,  or  a  strong  curved  weapon  with  a 
heavy  brass  handle?  Is  the  flagon  one  of  pewter, 
or  earthenware,  or  leather? 

It  may  be  objected  that  we  cannot  make  our- 
selves believe  that  the  setting  and  properties  and 
players  are  other  than  they  are.  Not  fully,  of 
course;  but  to  some  extent  we  can  do  just  this. 
And  if  the  preliminary  discussion  of  setting,  prop- 
erties, and  costumes  has  been  careful  and  enthusias- 
tic, the  combined  contributions  of  the  class  should 
have  afforded  a  considerable  wealth  of  definite 
material  to  employ  in  conceiving  whatever  was 
not  definitely  shaped  in  the  course  of  that  discus- 
sion. Any  actor,  professional  or  amateur,  knows 
that  his  work  is  easier  and  more  effective  at  the 
dress  rehearsals  and  actual  performances  than  it 
[22] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

was  before  the  dress  rehearsal.  In  large  part  this 
is  due  to  the  fact  that  before  the  dress  rehearsal 
it  was  more  difficult  for  him  to  see  the  background 
and  the  properties  as  they  were  supposed  to  be, 
and  the  players  as  the  people  they  represented, 
than  it  is  when  he  has  the  full  equipment  of  cos- 
tume, scenery,  and  properties  to  help  him  realize 
the  setting.  One  reason  why  professionals  do 
better  work  than  amateurs  is  that  they  make  a 
real  effort  to  visualize  the  setting,  where  amateurs 
either  fail  to  realize  the  need  of  doing  so,  or  find 
it  irksome  and  consequently  do  not  make  the 
effort.  This  is  the  old  difference  between  the  ca- 
pable and  the  less  capable  worker:  the  capable 
worker  has  mastered  and  knows  the  importance 
of  technique,  where  the  less  capable  worker  trusts 
to  inspiration  and  enthusiasm.  Proper  technique 
in  acting  calls  for  a  whole-souled,  painstaking 
effort  to  "  make-believe,"  and  the  make  believe 
must  in  part  take  the  form  of  realizing  the  setting. 


3.  Acting  as  Team-work 

The  acting  of  a  play  is  essentially  a  matter  of 
team-work.  For  one  thing,  we  must  all,  as  players, 
be  constantly  mindful  of  the  tone  or  atmosphere 
that  the  class  has  judged  to  be  the  proper  one  for 
the  play;  we  must  not  sacrifice  the  spirit  of  the  play 
as  a  whole  either  to  exercise  our  own  special  abilities 
or  to  get  greater  individual  results  through  broad- 
ening our  roles  or  making  them  more  subtle  than 
will  best  suit  the  tone  of  the  entire  performance. 
[23] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

None  of  us  should  detract  from  the  main  inter- 
est of  any  situation  by  indulging  in  "  business  " 
that  will  take  the  attention  of  the  audience  from 
its  proper  main  concern.  Each  r61e  should  be 
made  life-like  and  interesting,  but  not  to  the  extent 
of  sacrificing  the  proper  dramatic  value  of  any  situ- 
ation as  a  whole.  At  the  Evander  Childs  High 
School  the  students  once  gave  a  public  perform- 
ance of  Seumas  O'Brien's  "  Matchmakers "  as 
part  of  a  bill  of  three  one-act  plays.  In  the  course 
of  the  play  two  men  talk  together  about  the  mar- 
riage of  the  son  of  one  and  the  daughter  of  the  other. 
The  daughter,  who  is  present,  shows  her  disap- 
proval of  the  turn  the  conversation  is  taking.  But 
she  ought  not  to  express  her  disapproval  in  such  a 
way  as  materially  to  attract  the  attention  of  the 
audience  from  the  talk  of  the  two  fathers.  On  the 
night  of  the  performance  the  "  daughter  "  was  so 
carried  away  by  the  spirit  of  her  part  that  she  did 
more  than  she  had  done  during  the  rehearsals. 
She  had  been  wont  to  take  up  and  set  down  in  evi- 
dent disapproval  the  high  silk  hat  of  her  father's 
friend;  but  now  she  pretended  to  pour  water  into 
the  hat,  which  so  amused  the  audience  that  it  gave 
her  almost  its  whole  attention  and  lost  much  of 
what  the  two  men  were  saying.  This  was  bad 
team-work  on  her  part,  for  (though  she  did  not 
mean  to  do  so)  she  sacrificed  the  more  important 
conversation  for  the  less  important  matter  of  her 
by-play. 

It  is  very  important,  further,  that  each  of  us  be 
constantly  helping  the  rest  to  get  the  most  out  of 
[24] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

their  parts.  Suppose  some  one  is  telling  us  a  bit 
of  surprising  news.  It  will  help  him  if  we  show 
surprise  or  whatever  other  feeling  may  be  called 
for;  but  if  we  give  no  evidence  that  we  are  concerned 
— worse  yet,  if  we  turn  away  (unless  we  do  so  to 
hide  our  concern), — we  weaken  the  effect  he  should 
get,  thus  -causing  the  scene  to  miss  some  of  its 
force  and  making  both  the  other  player  and  us  our- 
selves lose  some  of  the  spirit  of  the  passage. 

To  illustrate  another  consideration  in  the  matter 
of  team-work,  suppose  another  player  is  to  use  an 
article  that  we  shall  have  handled  before  his  time 
comes  to  use  it;  we  must  be  very  careful  to  leave 
it  just  where  he  should  find  it.  Or  suppose  some 
property  (a  revolver,  or  a  candle,  for  example) 
plays  an  important  part  in  the  action.  The  dram- 
atist has  probably  arranged  for  some  reference  to 
be  made  to  that  article  before  the  audience  sees 
it  to  be  important;  or  he  may  have  planned  to  have 
had  it  used  before  that  time  comes.  This  prelimin- 
ary reference  or  use  must  be  clearly  made  by  the 
player  assigned  to  make  it,  so  that  the  later  im- 
portance of  the  article  will  not  surprise  the  au- 
dience. In  "  Two  Crooks  and  a  Lady"  Miller  not 
only  uses  his  revolver  to  threaten  Mrs.  Simms- 
Vane,  but  after  he  has  placed  it  on  the  table  (and 
placed  it  rather  noisily,  be  it  noticed),  he  takes  it 
up  later  in  a  half-formed  intent  to  threaten  her 
again.  Then,  when  Mrs.  Simms-Vane  calls  Lu- 
cille's  attention  to  the  weapon,  the  audience  con- 
siders it  entirely  reasonable  that  the  lady  has  had 
it  in  mind — although  the  audience  has  forgotten 
[25] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

it.  Another  phase  of  this  matter  is  illustrated  in 
the  Countrywoman7 s  account  of  how  the  Will 
o'  the  Wisp  leads  people  over  the  cliff  to  their 
death:  her  telling  this  enables  the  audience  to 
know  just  what,  at  the  end  of  the  play,  the  Pale- 
faced  Girl  means  to  do  with  the  poet's  wife.  Here 
the  use  of  an  article  is  not  concerned,  but  the  same 
principle  is  involved  as  in  the  case  where  an  article 
is  used,  since  the  audience  is  prepared  for  an  im- 
portant development  of  the  action  by  the  prelimin- 
ary reference  that  is  made  to  the  practice  of  the 
Will  o'  the  Wisp.  Take  the  little  boy's  wish  for  a 
hoop,  in  "  The  Golden  Doom  ":  this  prepares  for 
the  disappearance  of  the  king's  crown  later  on, 
and  for  that  reason  the  boy's  wish  should  be  very 
clearly  expressed. 

Another  thing  to  consider  here  is  the  matter  of 
the  relative  positions  of  any  two  or  more  players 
who  may  be  on  the  "  stage  "  at  any  given  time. 
It  is  important  that  each  shall  know  where  the 
other  or  others  are  going  to  be,  and  the  only  way  to 
insure  such  an  understanding  is  to  plan  out,  before 
the  particular  bit  of  acting  in  question  is  begun, 
just  about  where  everyone  is  going  to  be.  At  the 
start  of  any  recitation  where  a  part  of  the  play  is 
to  be  acted,  the  class  should  determine  where  the 
various  players  are  to  be  in  the  course  of  the  day's 
work,  and  what  they  should  do  in  so  far  as  their 
action  affects  one  another.  To  do  this,  students 
should  be  asked  to  "  walk  through  "  the  action  at 
the  direction  of  the  class.  "  Walking  through  " 
the  action  means  making  the  movements  that  are 
[261 


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called  for,  and  making  them  in  order,  but  without 
reading  any  lines.  Something  that  would  take 
half  an  hour  to  act  may  be  "  walked  through  " 
in  a  moment  or  two,  because  the  dialogue  will  not 
be  read,  and  only  such  movements  need  be  made 
as  affect  the  relative  positions  of  the  players.  There 
will  be  differences  of  opinion  as  to  what  positions, 
groupings,  and  changes  of  position  are  proper,  but 
these  can  be  threshed  out  and  the  best  procedure 
determined  in  a  few  minutes.  The  advantage  of 
determining  in  advance  the  positions  of  the  players 
lies  in  the  fact  that  the  students  who  act  during  the 
recitation  will  know  where  they  should  be  and  what 
they  should  do  in  relation  to  one  another,  with  the 
result  that  they  will  be  free  to  concentrate  their 
efforts  on  the  problems  of  expression  that  are  in- 
volved in  the  interpretation  of  their  own  rol^s. 

But,  though  we  plan  out  in  advance  the  group- 
ing and  positions  of  the  players,  we  do  this  only  in 
a  general  way,  and  in  the  course  of  the  day's  acting 
we  may  need  to  make  little  adjustments  where  we 
find  we  are  not  working  out  the  details  of  position 
quite  as  we  planned.  If  we  believe  that  the  group- 
ing is  becoming  ineffective,  we  should  change  our 
position  slightly  to  heighten  the  effectiveness  of 
the  stage  picture,  but  we  must  be  careful  not  to 
violate  the  general  scheme  that  we  worked  out  at 
the  beginning  of  the  recitation.  For  example,  we 
may  be  getting  too  nearly  in  front  of  one  another, 
or  getting  too  close  together,  or  working  too  far  to 
one  side  of  the  "  stage  ";  in  such  cases  it  may  be 
possible  for  one  or  more  of  us  to  make  a  slight 
[27] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

change  in  position.  This,  however,  must  be  done 
carefully,  for  it  is  a  cardinal  principle  of  acting  that 
nothing  should  be  done  on  the  stage  unless  it  will 
seem  to  the  audience  to  be  a  natural  thing  for  the 
player  concerned  to  do  under  the  circumstances 
and  in  the  r61e  that  he  is  playing.1 

4.  Getting  Inside  the  Character 

As  players  we  have  to  express  the  thoughts  and 
feelings  of  the  persons  we  represent,  and  we  have 
to  do  this  so  as  to  make  their  personalities  plain. 
In  a  later  section  of  this  chapter,  we  shall  take  up 
in  detail  the  way  to  present  the  characterization 
at  which  we  have  arrived  in  the  study  of  a  role; 
but  here  we  must  consider  how  to  go  about  the 
matter  of  making  the  personality  of  a  stage  char- 
acter seem  real  to  us.    We  cannot  know  how  the 

1  No  mention  has  been  made  of  the  need  of  giving  one's 
cues  exactly,  since  in  the  classroom  acting  the  various  parts 
are  read  from  the  text  and  not  delivered  from  memory.  How- 
ever, if  the  class  elects  to  commit  to  memory  any  part  of  a 
play,  the  matter  of  the  cues  is  important,  for  each  speaker 
counts  on  being  given,  with  absolute  exactness,  the  last  few 
words  of  the  dialogue  immediately  preceding  his  own  lines. 
He  waits  for  these  and  is  at  a  loss  if  he  does  not  get  them. 
Likewise,  where  any  part  of  a  play  is  memorized,  the  players 
must  "pick  up"  their  cues  promptly,  or  the  dialogue  drags 
and  loses  in  interest.  Except  as  a  matter  of  experiment, 
memorizing  the  text  for  classroom  work  is  inadvisable.  The 
labor  attendant  upon  learning  parts  is  very  considerable,  and 
what  may  be  gained  in  freedom  of  action  when  the  players 
know  their  lines  is  more  than  balanced  by  the  effort  necessary 
to  recall  the  lines  perfectly.  This  effort  takes  the  player's 
attention  from  his  representation,  and  when  a  slip  in  the  de- 
livery occurs  there  must  be  a  break  in  the  work,  ana  this  causes 
&  letting  down  in  the  spirit  of  the  scene. 

[281 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

character  feels  and  thinks  at  any  given  moment  in 
the  play  unless  we  know  the  sort  of  person  he  is; 
and  certainly  we  cannot  speak  and  act  in  a  manner 
to  show  his  personality  unless  we  know  what  this 
personality  is. 

Suppose  we  have  been  asked  to  prepare  to  act  the 
r6Ie  of  Miller  in  "  Two  Crooks  and  a  Lady."  The 
preliminary  study  that  the  class  made  of  Miller's 
nature  will  not  have  afforded  us  a  sufficiently 
clear-cut  and  complete  understanding  of  the  man 
to  enable  us  to  be  Miller  in  imagination.  To  get 
a  proper  conception  of  Miller  we  must  determine 
just  what  sort  of  man  his  speech  and  action  show 
him  to  be,  and  then  we  must  seek  to  identify  our- 
selves with  him;  that  is,  to  make  ourselves  look 
at  matters  as  he  does,  and  feel  about  them  the  way 
he  does. 

Miller  has  the  criminal's  lack  of  the  sense  of 
right.  He  is  not  brave,  for  the  dramatist  tells  us 
he  is  "  frightened  "  by  Lucille' 's  sudden  recognition; 
Mr.  Pillot  uses  the  word  "  frightened  "  rather  than 
the  term  "startled."  Miller  is  suspicious  of 
Lucille  at  the  beginning:  "  Going  to  hog  the  neck- 
lace yourself,  'stead  of  divvying  up  with  me,  huh?  " 
he  says.  Miller  cannot  keep  his  word:  not  only 
does  he  break  faith  with  Mrs,  Simms-Vane  in 
taking  the  stamp-box,  but  he  plays  false  with 
Lucille  when  he  agrees  to  Mrs.  Simms-Vane* s 
plan  of  taking  the  necklace  and  keeping  Lucille 
from  her  share.  Miller  exhibits  his  cruelty  in  his 
treatment  of  the  helpless  invalid.  He  bullies  both 
of  the  women.  The  revengefulness  of  his  nature, 
[29] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

and  his  lack  of  sportmanship  are  evident  when  he 
"  peaches  "  on  Lucille  instead  of  taking  her  shoot- 
ing of  him  as  something  he  has  brought  upon  him- 
self. He  is  not  really  clever,  but  in  his  plans  and 
the  way  he  proceeds  to  carry  them  out  he  shows 
merely  a  familarity  with  the  thief's  ordinary  meth- 
ods of  procedure.  He  is  vain:  Mrs.  Simms-Vane 
sees  this  and  plays  upon  his  good  opinion  of  his 
own  appearance;  he  shows  his  vanity,  too,  in  his 
obvious  wish  to  impress  Lucille  with  his  plans  for 
the  robbery,  in  his  effort  to  appear  efficient  in  the 
search,  and  in  the  airy  way  in  which  he  refers  to 
the  "  little  way  we  have  "  of  picking  the  stones 
from  their  settings.  Miller7 s  "  Hello,  Inspector  " 
is  pure  bravado.  He  shows  irritation  rather  than 
the  strength  of  self-control  when  Mrs.  Simms- 
Vane  says  "  Almost  your  first  words  disclosed  the 
fact  that  you  did  not  know  where  the  necklace 
is  laid  away  ";  his  reply  is  "  You're  not  very  clever 
yourself.  You've  just  as  well  as  admitted  the 
Thirty-three's  in  this  room." 

These  are  many  qualities,  but  they  are  all  re- 
lated, for  they  are  all  rooted  in  selfishness.  The 
character  of  Miller  is  entirely  unified  and  consistent, 
and  we  may  sum  it  up  by  saying  that  he  is  thor- 
oughly selfish  and  lacking  in  moral  fiber,  and  that 
he  is  tricky  rather  than  really  intelligent. 

Now  let  us  seek  to  identify  ourselves  with  this 
"  crook," — to  get  inside  the  role.  We  know  what 
sort  of  man  he  is,  and  we  must  try  to  put  ourselves 
in  his  place  and  think  and  feel  with  him.  Of  course, 
his  ideas  and  feelings  vary  throughout  the  play;  but 
[301 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

there  is  a  fundamental  mental  attitude  toward  life 
that  Miller  has,  and  a  tendency  to  entertain  cer- 
tain kinds  of  emotions  rather  than  others.  Our 
first  problem  is  to  get  ourselves  into  Miller's  gen- 
eral attitude  of  thought  and  feeling.  How  can 
we  do  this?  We  are  not  criminals,  to  be  sure: 
we  are  not  greedy,  nor  vain,  nor  cruel,  nor  con- 
ceited, nor  any  of  the  other  things  that  Miller 
is.  Well,  no;  but  these  traits  are  all  weaknesses 
that  the  flesh  is  heir  to,  and  we  all  have  a  touch 
of  selfishness  in  us,  doubtless,  and  probably  a 
trace  of  the  other  qualities.    Keats  said: 

"Where's  the  Poet?    Show  him!    Show  him, 
Muses  nine!  that  I  may  know  him! 
'Tis  the  man  who  with  a  man 

Is  an  equal,  be  he  King, 
Or  poorest  of  the  beggar-clan, 

Or  any  other  wondrous  thing 
A  man  may  be  'twixt  ape  and  Plato.' ' 

And  it  is  our  task  for  the  time  being  to  be  an  equal 
with  this  weak,  ignorant,  wrong-thinking  man,  who, 
although  he  is  most  unlovely,  is  one  of  "  the  won- 
drous things  '  twixt  ape  and  Plato  " — a  man.  We 
can  do  this  so  far  as  the  feelings  are  concerned  by 
recalling  times  when  we  were  selfish,  or  vain,  or 
greedy,  and  reviving  those  feelings;  or  we  can  imag- 
ine circumstances  under  which  we  might  show  these 
qualities,  and  so  experience  these  feelings  in  imagi- 
nation. In  the  matter  of  getting  the  general  atti- 
tude of  thought  that  Miller  entertains,  it  is  doubt- 
less enough  if  we  can  realize  that  he  thinks  of  his 
[31] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

own  wishes  so  exclusively  that  ideas  of  obligations 
to  society  and  to  individuals  do  not  seem  to  anter 
at  all,  or  very  slightly,  into  his  mental  processes. 
We  can  imagine  the  criminal's  super-selfish  out- 
look on  life,  but  we  can  hardly  entertain  it,  for  it 
is. really  an  abnormal  one. 

So  much  for  the  attempt  to  experience  the  general 
attitude  of  thought  and  feeling  which  Miller  shows. 
The  definite  ideas  and  feelings  that  a  character 
entertains  at  the  various  points  in  a  play  must, 
of  course,  be  realized  by  the  player  who  seeks  to 
get  inside  his  part.  Suppose,  as  Miller,  we  are 
trying  to  force  Mrs.  Simms-Vane  to  tell  where  the 
necklace  is.  To  help  us  to  appreciate  his  feelings 
and  thoughts,  can  we  recall  any  incident  in  our 
experience,  or  imagine  one,  where  we  were  placed, 
or  might  be  placed,  in  a  situation  similar  to  Mil- 
ler's? Miller  is  seeking  to  force  a  physically  weaker 
person  to  reveal  the  location  of  something  that 
that  person  does  not  wish  to  have  him  take,  and 
Miller  has  no  right  to  take  the  object,  or  even  to 
ask  where  it  is.  Miller  has  the  assistance  of  an- 
other person  who  admires  him,  but  also  mistrusts 
him.  This  is  something  like  trying  to  force  little 
brother  or  sister  to  tell  where  the  jam  is,  when  we 
have  the  backing  of  a  chum  who  is  prepared  to  help 
us,  and  to  whom  we  have  promised  a  share.  If 
little  brother  or  sister  heroically  refuses  to  tell, 
greed,  wounded  vanity,  irritation  over  impending 
defeat,  the  fear  of  being  caught  if  we  are  not  soon 
successful,  will  all  tend  to  rouse  the  disagreeable 
qualities  that  Miller  shows.  We  have  not,  pre- 
[32] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

sumably,  ever  tried  to  rob  the  family  store  of  jam 
under  just  these  circumstances;  but  we  might  have 
done  so,  and  we  can  realize  how  we  should  have 
felt  and  what  we  should  have  thought  at  such  a 
time.  Now  if  we  intensify  all  the  unpleasant 
qualities  and  ideas  that  the  imagined  jam  robbery 
would  have  aroused  in  us,  we  can  come  fairly 
close  to  identifying  ourselves  with  Miller's  attitude 
at  the  particular  point  in  the  play  where  he  threat- 
ens Mrs.  Simms-Vane. 


5.  The  Auditory  Appeal 

In  our  presentation  of  a  r61e  we  appeal  ordinarily 
both  to  the  eye  and  to  the  ear  of  the  spectators. 
Such  unusual  r61es  as  those  of  the  Pale-faced  Girl 
in  "  Will  o*  the  Wisp,"  who  does  not  speak,  and 
Mrs.  Simms-Vane  in  "  Two  Crooks  and  a  Lady," 
who  does  not  move,  are  exceptions;  but  even  in 
the  playing  of  Mrs.  Simms-Vane  there  is  an  appeal 
to  the  eye,  for  the  lady  is  seen,  and  she  moves  her 
eyes.  This  double  appeal  of  the  player  is  implied  in 
the  two  words  "  audience "  and  "spectators " 
as  applied  to  those  who  are  present  at  a  dramatic 
performance.  Strictly  speaking,  the  term  "  spec- 
tators "  refers  to  those  watching,  and  the  word 
"  audience  "  to  those  hearing  sl  performance;  but 
for  convenience,  either  word  is  commonly  used 
to  denote  those  receiving  the  double  appeal  to  eye 
and  ear.  To  be  effective  in  our  work,  we  must 
make  this  double  appeal  according  to  correct  prin- 
ciples. We  shall  consider  the  two  parts  of  the  work 
T331 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

separately  under  the  headings  "  The  Auditory 
Appeal  "  and  "  The  Visual  Appeal,"  in  this  sec- 
tion treating  of  the  former,  which  is,  of  course, 
the  oral  delivery  of  the  player's  lines. 

The  problem  of  reading  our  lines  is  partly  a 
matter  of  observing  the  mechanics  of  vocal  de- 
livery, and  partly  a  matter  of  calculating  how  to 
express  the  thought  and  feeling  effectively  in  our 
speech.  The  so-called  "  old  style  "  actor  gave  a 
great  deal  of  attention  to  his  elocution,  and  very 
likely  even  went  so  far  as  to  regard  a  good  mechani- 
cal rendering  of  his  lines  as  of  more  importance 
than  the  expression  of  the  exact  shade  of  emotion 
or  the  exact  ideas  that  the  lines  implied.  The  actor 
of  to-day  has  doubtless  gone  to  the  other  extreme, 
and  slights  the  matter  of  elocution.  The  right 
attitude  to  take  is  to  hold  a  proper  mechanical 
foundation  as  a  most  important  means  to  an  end, 
though  not  an  end  in  itself.  In  considering  here 
the  various  elements  of  good  delivery,  we  shall 
treat  both  their  mechanical  foundation  and  their 
significance  in  the  expression  of  thought  and  feeling. 
Of  these  elements,  breathing,  enunciation,  and  ar- 
ticulation are  almost  purely  mechanical  matters, 
while  pitch,  quality,  rate,  and  intensity  of  voice, 
together  with  phrasing  and  emphasis,  are  important 
elements  in  the  expression  of  thought  and  feeling. 

a.  Breathing.  Diaphragm  breathing  is  the  best 
for  good  speaking  because  it  best  develops  power 
of  control  over  the  breath  supply.  We  use  the 
diaphragm  in  breathing  when  we  seem  to  breathe 
with  the  bottom  of  the  chest  and  not  with  the 
[34] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

upper  part.  The  upper  abdomen  and  lower  chest 
move  when  we  breathe  in  this  way,  and  the  upper 
chest  and  the  shoulders  do  not  move. 

b.  Enunciation.  Whenever  the  breath  causes  the 
vocal  cords  to  vibrate,  sound  is  produced.  This 
sound  is  the  foundation  of  various  speech  sounds, 
but  it  does  not  become  speech  sound  until  it  has 
been  molded  by  the  several  organs  of  speech — 
the  hard  and  soft  palate,  the  tongue,  the  lips,  the 
teeth,  and  the  cheeks.  These  operate  to  modify 
the  shape  of  the  great  resonance  chamber, — the 
mouth, — and  to  control  its  adjunct, — the  nasal 
cavity.  When  the  organs  of  speech  are  in  certain 
positions,  the  sound  resulting  from  the  vibration 
of  the  vocal  cords  will  result  in  certain  definite 
speech  sounds.  The  production  of  speech  sound, 
whieh  is  called  enunciation,  is  thus  a  matter  of 
the  position  of  the  organs  of  speech.  Of  course, 
certain  sounds  are  made  upon  a  breath  foundation 
rather  than  upon  a  sound  foundation.  "  H," 
"  f,"  "  s,"  "  wh,"  "  sh,"  and  "th  "  as  in  thought, 
are  breath  sounds.  Breath  sounds  differ  from  one 
another  in  the  same  way  that  voice  sounds  differ 
from  one  another,  in  each  case  the  difference  being 
due  to  the  difference  of  position  in  the  organs  of 
speech  at  the  time  the  sounds  are  made. 

Bad  enunciation  may  be  due  only  to  care- 
lessness or  indifference:  "  doo  "  for  "dew/' "  thoid  " 
for  "  third,"  "  wen  "  for  "  when  "  are  exam- 
ples of  what  may  be  simply  careless  errors. 
To  correct  faults  in  enunciation  that  are  due  to 
carelessness  or  indifference,  one  has  merely  to 
T351 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

speak  with  care;  but  even  so,  one  will  be  helped 
by  a  realization  of  what  constitutes  the  proper 
position  of  the  speech  organs  for  the  production 
of  any  given  sound.  But  when  one  has  some  fault 
that  one  cannot  overcome  simply  by  the  exercise 
of  care  in  speaking,  a  study  of  the  position  of  the 
speech  organs  is  called  for,  and  this  should  be 
followed  by  drill  exercises.  Such  drills  can  be 
found  in  any  good  book  on  sound  formation.  Pro- 
fessor Calvin  L.  Lewis's  "A  Handbook  of  Ameri- 
can Speech  "  will  prove  a  useful  and  simple  prac- 
tice book. 

c.  Articulation.  Practice,  following  a  realization 
of  their  errors,  is  all  that  most  people  need  to  cor- 
rect faults  in  joining  sounds  together.  Most  of 
us  have  faults  of  this  sort,  some  of  us  very  serious 
ones.  "  Yes'day  "  or  "  yes'dey  "  for  "  yester- 
day," "  wanna  "  for  "want  to,"  "  an  '  you  "  for 
"  and  you  "  are  faults  of  articulation.  Of  course, 
one  must  not  go  to  the  extreme  of  saying  "  an- 
duh  you  "  or  "  want-t  to,"  either. 

d.  Phrasing.  Phrasing  in  speaking  or  reading 
is  the  grouping  of  words  together  by  the  use  of 
pauses.  We  may  say  that  there  are  two  kinds  of 
phrasing,  since  we  may  pause  for  either  of  two 
reasons.  We  may  pause  before  or  after  an  expres- 
sion in  order  to  make  it  emphatic,  or  we  may  pause 
in  the  course  of  a  remark  in  order  to  make  the 
thought  clearer  than  it  would  otherwise  be.  When 
we  use  the  first  type  of  pause  we  are  phrasing  for 
emphasis;  this  will  be  discussed  later  on  in  the 
chapter.    When  we  phrase  for  clearness,  we  group 

T361 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

together  sets  of  words  that  constitute  grammatica\ 
elements  in  the  sentence.  Phrasing  is  thus  not 
a  matter  of  mere  mechanics;  it  is  true  that  in  the 
course  of  an  expression  of  any  length  we  must 
pause  for  breath,  but  we  should  take  breath  at 
points  where  we  pause  for  the  purpose  of  making 
the  thought  emphatic  or  clear. 

In  the  following  passage  the  vertical  lines  indi- 
cate points  at  which  we  phrase  for  clearness.  It 
will  be  seen  that  each  group  of  words  is  grammatic- 
ally a  unit  of  some  sort.  The  double  lines  indicate 
the  more  important  grammatical  divisions,  and 
the  longer  phrase  pauses  fall  at  these  places. 

"Indeed,  !|  the  cheerlessness  |  of  the  mid- 
night hour,  J  in  the  dim  chamber,  |  with  the 
rain  tapping  on  the  mullioned  windows,  ||  may 
well  bring  home  to  them  |  the  dubiousness  of 
their  captive  state  ||  and  set  them  to  anxious 
question  I  of  what  the  dawn  |  may  have  in  store 
for  them." 

We  cannot,  in  reading  our  lines,  make  a  rapid 
mental  survey  of  the  grammatical  structure  of  a 
sentence  in  order  to  know  just  how  to  phrase  for 
clearness.  But  we  can  pause  where  we  think  our 
pausing  will  make  the  thought  clear.  By  doing 
so  we  shall  unconsciously  be  making  plain  the 
grammatical  relation  of  the  sentence  elements 
through  our  use  of  the  pause,  and  that  is  just  what 
phrasing  for  clearness  is. 

The  punctuation  of  any  passage  should  be  an 
aid  to  correct  phrasing,  but  it  is  only  an  aid.  Too 
often  students  regard  punctuation  marks  as  sig- 
[37] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

nals  for  changing  or  sustaining  the  pitch  of  their 
voices.  Many  young  people  believe  that  the  period 
calls  invariably  for  a  "  dropping  of  the  voice/'  and 
that  the  comma  and  the  interrogation  mark  call 
just  as  invariably  for  a  "  keeping  up  of  the  voice  "; 
therefore  they  obey  these  signs  irrespective  of  the 
thought  of  the  passage  they  are  reading.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  punctuation  marks  are  not  to  be 
taken  as  direct  guides  in  the  use  of  voice  pitch, 
but  rather  as  indications  of  grammatical  relation. 
Often  we  very  properly  "  drop  our  voices  "  after 
interrogation  marks,  and  likewise  after  commas. 
A  writer  punctuates  a  passage  to  aid  the  reader  in 
grasping  the  grammatical  relation  of  its  various 
parts,  and  thus  the  punctuation  is  a  help  in  phras- 
ing. But  it  is  only  a  help.  In  the  passage  quoted 
there  are  phrase  pauses  at  other  points  than  those 
marked  by  punctuation,  and  in  general  it  may  be 
said  that  people  phrase  badly  who  phrase  only 
according  to  punctuation. 

Phrasing,  always  important,  becomes  particu- 
larly so  when  for  any  reason  there  is  likelihood 
that  an  audience  may  fail  to  grasp  the  thought  of  a 
passage.  If  we  have  occasion  to  speak  in  a  tone 
lower  than  our  usual  pitch,  we  may  not  be  under- 
stood unless  we  make  more  phrase  pauses  than  we 
should  normally  make,  and  at  the  same  time  make 
them  more  marked.  In  this  matter  it  should  be 
noted  that  extreme  care  in  enunciation  is  another 
means  of  making  clear  the  thought  of  a  passage 
that  an  audience  might  be  expected  to  have  dif- 
ficulty in  grasping.  Mrs.  Simms-Vane  speaks  in 
f381 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

a  voice  that  her  illness  has  rendered  weak  and  low 
and  slightly  monotonous.  But  her  cultured  speech 
would  naturally  be  marked  by  an  enunciation  so 
clear  as  to  serve  as  an  offset  to  the  faintness  of 
tone.  We  must  remember,  too,  that  a  third  help 
in  the  matter  of  insuring  clearness  of  thought  lies 
in  the  proper  use  of  emphasis. 

Phrasing  for  clearness  is,  then,  a  very  important 
element  in  the  adequate  presentation  of  thought, 
and  it  is  obvious  that  no  one  can  phrase  properly 
who  does  not  completely  understand  the  thought 
of  what  he  is  saying  or  reading.  The  rest  of  the 
matters  to  be  treated  in  connection  with  the  Au- 
ditory Appeal  are,  like  phrasing,  not  matters  of 
voice  mechanics;  neither  are  they  wholly  concerned, 
as  phrasing  is,  with  making  clear  the  structural 
relation  of  the  various  parts  of  the  sentence.  The 
importance  of  these  further  matters  lies  in  their 
value  as  aids  in  the  presentation  of  ideas  so  as  to 
show  the  personalities  of  the  various  characters 
and  their  emotional  states,  as  well  as  to  make  plain 
their  thoughts. 

When  we  act  a  role,  we  should  constantly  ask 
ourselves  five  questions:  First,  "  Just  what  is  the 
thought  that  our  character  expresses  here? " 
Second,  "  How  can  we  make  this  plain  in  the  way 
we  read  the  lines  and  in  what  we  do?  "  Third, 
"  Just  what  feeling  does  our  character  entertain 
here?  "  Fourth,  "  How  can  we  make  this  plain 
in  the  way  we  read  the  lines  and  in  what  we  do?  " 
Fifth,  "  Bearing  in  mind  what  qualities  of  mind 
[39] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

and  heart  mark  the  personality  of  the  character 
whose  role  we  are  playing,  how  can  we  make  his 
individuality  plain  in  what  we  say  and  in  what  we 
do?  "  Of  course,  in  the  Auditory  Appeal  we  are 
concerned  with  how  we  speak  and  not  with  what 
we  do;  but  with  this  limitation,  it  is  these  five 
questions  that  we  must  bear  in  mind  in  considering 
the  matters  of  the  Rate  of  Delivery,  Pitch  of 
Voice,  Quality  of  Voice,  Force  and  Volume  of 
Voice,  and  Emphasis.  Inflection  and  Pronuncia- 
tion, both  of  which  will  be  briefly  treated,  have  little 
importance  as  elements  in  the  presentation  of  par- 
ticular thoughts  and  feelings,  though  Dialect — 
a  division  of  Pronunciation — has  a  real  value  in 
the  matter  of  characterization. 

e.  The  Rate  of  Delivery.  1.  Taking  for  granted 
that  we  realize  the  need  of  reading  our  lines  slowly 
enough  for  the  audience  to  hear  just  what  we  are 
saying,  our  first  consideration  in  this  phase  of  oral 
delivery  is  the  possible  demands  of  the  general 
characterization  of  our  r6Ie.  For  example,  if  our 
character  is  a  slow-thinking,  phlegmatic  person, 
we  must  make  this  plain  by  speaking  slowly, — 
perhaps  with  a  drawl.  In  "  The  Golden  Doom  " 
the  Chief  Prophet  may  well  be  represented  as  speak- 
ing slowly  in  the  effort  to  impress  his  hearers.  The 
oily  smoothness  of  Eurymachus  in  "  Ulysses  "  may 
to  a  considerable  extent  be  indicated  by  a  deliber- 
ateness  in  the  delivery  of  the  lines;  certainly  a 
rapid  delivery  would  be  wrong,  for  it  would  tend 
to  indicate  a  nature  different  from  that  which  the 
[40] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

dramatist  plainly  assigns  to  Eurymachus.  The 
Magistrate  in  "  Spreading  the  News  "  would  well 
be  made  to  speak  with  a  nervous  rapidity.  Miller 
in  "Two  Crooks  and  a  Lady"  might  also  be  rep- 
resented as  speaking  in  a  rapid,  jerky  way,  partly 
as  a  result  of  the  pressure  he  is  under,  partly  be- 
cause we  may  conceive  him  as  wishing  to  appear 
business-like  and  efficient,  but  largely  because  we 
may  well  consider  him  a  tense,  nervous  man. 

Aside  from  general  matters  of  characterization, 
we  must  make  the  rapidity  with  which  we  speak 
at  any  given  time  accord  with  the  particular 
thought  and  feeling  to  be  expressed.  In  what  is 
said  below,  possible  demands  of  any  general  char- 
acterization are  disregarded  in  order  to  show  cer- 
tain principles;  but  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that 
the  demands  of  the  general  characterization  are 
of  prime  importance,  and  the  expression  of  par- 
ticular ideas  or  emotional  states  must  never  weaken 
the  consistency  that  must  mark  our  delineation  of 
the  character  we  represent. 

2.  Our  rate  of  delivery  varies  with  the  strength 
of  our  feelings.  Offhand,  we  should  say  that  the 
stronger  the  feeling  is  that  we  entertain,  the  more 
rapid  will  be  our  speech.  This  is  the  case  with  feel- 
ing that  is  not  restrained.  When  we  are  not  con- 
trolling ourselves  emotionally,  we  are  "letting  our- 
selves go"  to  a  certain  extent,  and  this  general 
attitude  will  perforce  affect  our  rate  of  speech.  It  is 
practically  impossible  to  lose  control  of  our  emotions 
and  retain  a  control  of  their  expression  as  far  as  the 
rate  of  delivery  is  concerned.  But  when  we  force 
[411 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

a  control  of  ourselves  emotionally  we  are  making 
a  successful  effort  to  keep  down  our  feelings,  and 
this  effort  will  carry  over  to  our  rate  of  speech. 
The  result  is  that  we  speak  more  slowly  than  we 
should  ordinarily  do.  In  the  "Will  o'  the  Wisp," 
where  the  Poet's  Wife  realizes  what  the  Pale-faced 
Girl  is,  she  speaks  very  fast  in  uncontrolled  anger 
and  indignation.  Penelope's  reply  to  Antinous,  be- 
ginning "Splendid  Antinous,  I  tell  thee  this,"  may 
be  rendered  either  slowly  or  somewhat  rapidly,  de- 
pending upon  whether  Penelope's  feelings  are  to  be 
understood  as  repressed  or  as  being  beyond  her 
control. 

Rate  varies  not  only  with  the  strength  but  with 
the  kind  of  feeling.  Certain  feelings  commonly 
mark  an  excited  emotional  state,  and  when  we  en- 
tertain them  our  speech  is  faster  than  our  usual  rate; 
gaiety  and  irritation  are  examples.  On  the  other 
hand,  certain  feelings  mark  a  subdued  emotional 
condition  and  make  for  a  slow  rate  of  delivery; 
examples  are  tenderness  and  awe. 

3.  When  our  speech  is  not  noticeably  colored  by 
feeling,  the  rate  will  be  neither  rapid  nor  slow  ex- 
cept to  the  extent  that  the  thought  of  what  we  are 
saying  may  cause  us  to  speak  rapidly  or  slowly. 
For  rate  of  delivery  varies  with  the  thought.  If 
our  thought  is  rapid,  our  speech  will  be  faster  than 
is  usual  with  us.  Conversely,  slowness  of  thought 
is  reflected  in  slowness  of  speech.  Miller's  explana- 
tion to  Lucille  of  his  plans  to  secure  an  uninterrupted 
search  for  the  necklace  calls  for  a  quickened  rate  of 
delivery  partly  because  he  is  expressing  ideas  pre- 
[42] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

conceived  and  familiar.  The  Mandarin  in  "The 
Turtle  Dove"  speaks  slowly  when  he  is  considering 
how  to  have  Kwen-lin  carried  to  the  house. 

When  we  are  delivering  an  important  exposition 
we  must  speak  slowly,  so  that  the  audience  will  not 
fail  to  grasp  the  thought.  Passages  of  this  kind  are 
the  announcements  of  the  Chorus  in  "The  Turtle 
Dove  "  and  the  remarks  of  the  Countrywoman  to  the 
Pale-faced  Girl  at  the  beginning  of  the  "Will  o'  the 
Wisp." 

f.  Pitch  of  Voice.  The  speaking  voice  varies  in 
pitch  in  the  same  way  that  the  singing  voice  does. 

1.  Of  course,  we  never  speak  a  single  sentence 
of  any  length  where  every  sound  is  on  the  same 
pitch  or  key.  In  the  line,  "  But *  tis  mere  murder. 
1  Tis  against  all  law,"  the  pitch  steadily  rises  from 
"  but  "  to  the  first  syllable  of  "  murder,"  drops  at 
the  second  syllable  to  a  lower  note  than  was  used 
for  "  but,"  strikes  the  same  note  for  the  second 
"  '  tis  "  that  was  used  for  "  but,"  steadily  rises 
again  through  the  word  "  all,"  and  remains  the 
same  for  "  law  "  as  for  "  all."  This  variation  in 
pitch  is  what  we  call  Inflection.  But  an  entire 
passage  with  its  inflections  may  be  pitched  pre- 
dominantly in  any  of  many  keys,  and  this  choice 
of  key  for  any  passage  is  largely  determined  by  the 
feeling  that  the  passage  should  reflect. 

2.  As  in  the  case  of  Rate,  the  demands  of  char- 
acter portrayal  may  enter  into  the  determination 
of  the  pitch  of  voice.  As  a  rule,  the  demands  of 
characterization  in  the  matter  of  pitch,  as  in  the 
other  elements  of  oral  delivery,  are  determined  by 

[43] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

the  predominant  emotional  state  and  mental  at- 
titude of  the  character.  Thus  Mrs.  Simms-Vane 
in  "  Two  Crooks  and  a  Lady  "  speaks  in  a  low 
pitch  because  she  is  tranquil,  having  been  schooled 
to  self-control  by  years  of  suffering,  and  because 
she  is  innately  dignified  and  unselfish.  The  pitch 
of  Mrs.  Tarpey's  voice  should  be  high,  partly  be- 
cause she  is  somewhat  deaf,  but  also  because  a  high 
pitch  is  characteristic  of  the  voice  of  a  gossip, — one 
given  to  talking  a  good  deal  without  saying  much. 

3.  The  pitch  of  our  voices  varies  with  our  feelings 
exactly  as  the  rate  of  delivery  does,  and  for  the 
same  reasons.  What  was  said  in  division  2  under 
Rate  applies  here.  Rapid  rate  and  high  pitch  go 
together,  and  slow  rate  and  low  pitch  are  similarly 
associated, — so  far,  that  is,  as  they  are  affected  by 
feeling.  It  is  to  be  noted,  however,  that  pitch  does 
not  depend  on  thought  as  rate  does,  except  as  ideas 
may  affect  feeling  and  so  affect  pitch  indirectly. 

4.  It  is  important  that  we  do  not  strain  our  voices 
by  pitching  them  habitually  too  high  or  too  low. 
In  his  "A  Handbook  of  American  Speech"  Professor 
Lewis  states  that  for  each  of  us  there  is  a  normal 
pitch,  and  he  tells  how  one  can  ascertain  what  one's 
normal  pitch  is.  He  says:  "Run  up  the  musical 
scale  to  the  highest  note  that  can  be  comfortably 
sounded.  Then  run  down  the  scale  to  the  lowest 
note  that  can  be  comfortably  sounded.  Midway 
between  the  two,  perhaps  a  tone  or  two  below  the 
middle,  is  the  tone  that  should  predominate  in 
speech,  the  tone  of  departure,  the  keynote,  ao  to 
speak." 

[44] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

g.  Quality.  Unless  we  speak  in  absolutely  color- 
less tones,  the  voice  is  shaded  with  some  feeling. 
This  shading,  which  is  not  the  rate  of  utterance  or 
the  pitch  of  the  voice,  is  called  Quality.  Whatever 
emotion  we  feel  at  a  given  time  has  its  effect  upon  | 
the  operation  of  the  organs  of  speech,  and  it  is  this 
effect  that  shows  in  what  we  call  voice  quality. 
It  is  very  difficult  to  analyze  quality  to  the  extent 
of  finding  out  just  how  emotion  affects  it,  although 
we  can  realize  in  rather  an  inexact  way  the  nature 
of  the  effect.  If  we  are  in  a  fault-finding  mood, 
our  speech  is  likely  to  have  a  querulous  quality. 
This,  we  can  see,  is  due  in  part  to  our  manipulating 
the  palate  so  as  to  send  much  more  than  the  normal 
amount  of  breath  into  the  nasal  cavity,  and  in  part 
to  our  closing  the  mouth  more  than  we  do  normally. 
Certainly  no  one  ever  showed  querulousness  in  his 
voice  who  spoke  with  the  back  of  his  mouth  re- 
laxed. Now,  if  we  feel  in  a  fretful  mood,  we  can 
keep  our  mood  from  showing  in  our  voice  by  mak- 
ing a  conscious  effort  to  avoid  a  querulous  quality. 
We  may  not  know  that  we  do  this  by  sending  only 
a  normal  supply  of  breath  into  the  nasal  cavity; 
we  simply  put  our  attention  upon  the  need  for 
avoiding  the  unpleasant  quality  in  question,  and 
we  find  we  do  avoid  it.  Conversely,  we  can  express 
the  querulousness  we  may  wish  our  voice  to  show  if 
we  simply  bear  in  mind  that  we  are  to  show  that 
quality;  the  physical  adjustment  of  the  speech 
organs  is  made  instinctively.  This  is  true  of  all 
the  other  qualities  that  the  voice  can  show.  For 
our  work  in  acting  our  plays,  about  all  we  can  do 
[45] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

in  the  matter  of  showing  quality  is  to  bear  con- 
stantly in  mind  the  need  of  showing  whatever 
quality  is  the  proper  one  to  show;  the  matter  is 
so  subtle  a  thing  that  practically  it  is  only  to  a 
very  slight  extent  a  matter  of  the  mechanics  of 
speech. 

There  are  almost  numberless  shadings  of  quality 
possible  in  the  human  voice,  for  every  shade  of 
emotion  is  reflected  by  a  particular  quality.  But 
just  as  we  may  for  practical  purposes  group  the 
many  tints  of  the  color  spectrum  into  a  few  well- 
defined  colors,  so  we  may  speak  of  tone  qualities 
as  divisible  into  a  few  distinct  classes.  These  are 
the  head-tone  or  upper  range  quality,  the  orotund, 
the  metallic,  and  the  aspirated  or  whispered.  The 
term  "metallic"  is  taken  from  Mr.  Louis  Calvert's 
remarks  on  "tones"  in  his  book,  "Problems  of  the 
Actor."  1 

1.  The  head-tone  or  upper-range  quality  marks 
our  speech  when  we  talk  in  the  course  of  ordi- 
nary business,  social,  and  domestic  relations,  where 
we  have  little  occasion  to  express  any  marked 
feeling.  This  quality  reflects  the  very  moderate 
interest  that  is  manifest  in  our  voices  when  we 
speak  of  mere  everyday  affairs;  but  although  we 
entertain  no  pronounced  feeling  of  any  kind  when 

1  Though  written  primarily  for  those  who  may  wish  to 
become  actors  or  actresses,  Mr.  Calvert's  book  is  in  no  way 
technical  and  will  prove  very  interesting  to  students  in 
dramatic  classes.  It  presents  fully  many  of  the  matters  set 
forth  in  the  present  volume,  and  contains  a  wealth  of  enter- 
taining anecdote  given  for  illustrative  purposes.  Mr.  Cal- 
vert is  a  distinguished  actor  and  writes  with  the  authority 
of  his  position  and  experience. 

[46] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

we  talk  on  such  matters,  we  do  have  a  polite 
regard  for  making  our  conversation  reasonably- 
animated .  It  is  not  right,  therefore,  to  say  that 
the  head-tone  quality  reflects  an  entire  absence 
of  feeling.  In  any  play  most  of  the  simple  ex- 
planations, dispassionate  questions,  and  unemo- 
tional remarks  generally,  are  given  in  the  head- 
tone  quality. 

2.  The  orotund  quality  is  the  strong,  rich,  clear 
quality  which  marks  the  voice  when  the  deeper 
feelings  are  stirred  to  expression  in  serious,  noble 
thought.  Expressions  of  patriotism,  self-sacrifice, 
honor,  justice,  unselfish  love,  and  the  like,  are 
naturally  delivered  with  clear,  full-toned,  musical 
quality.  We  can  say  that  the  throat  is  relaxed, 
and  that  the  organs  of  speech  move  unconstrain- 
edly;  but  we  cannot  trace  the  thrilling  timbre  of 
the  voice  to  its  complete  and  exact  mechanical 
source.  The  adjustment  of  palate,  lips,  tongue, 
throat  muscles,  and  vocal  cords  is  so  subtle  and  del- 
icate as  practically  to  defy  analysis.  But  when  we 
feel  a  certain  exaltation,  this  beautiful  quality 
is  present,  and  it  never  marks  an  emotion  that  is 
essentially  and  intensely  concerned  with  self,  or 
that  is  either  subdued  through  repression  or  marked 
by  an  abandonment  of  feeling.  By  conscious  effort 
we  can  bring  the  orotund  quality  into  our  voices; 
let  us  but  realize  the  tint  of  emotion  that  we  wish 
to  have  shade  our  speech,  and  the  subtle  adjust- 
ment is,  to  a  certain  extent,  made.  Practice  makes 
for  perfection  in  this  as  in  everything  else,  and  of 
course  the  more  completely  we  make-believe  emo- 
[47] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

tionally,  the  more  completely  will  we  show  in  our 
voices  the  feeling  we  wish  to  appear  to  possess. 
Some  voices  are  more  sensitive  than  others  to 
changes  of  feeling,  but  no  one  that  is  not  emotion- 
ally wooden  can  read  Penelope's  lines  spoken  in 
reply  to  Ctesippus's  offer  of  marriage,  or  her  reply 
to  Antinous's  proposal,  without  really  experiencing 
some  echo  or  reflection  of  her  deep  love,  which  is 
so  great  as  to  be  unselfish  in  the  sense  that  it  lifts 
her  out  of  herself. 

3.  The  metallic  quality  of  voice  marks  the  de- 
livery of  passages  that  are  emotionally  the  opposite 
of  those  naturally  spoken  with  the  orotund  quality. 
Anger,  ill-will  and  petulance  are  feelings  that  show 
in  the  metallic  quality.  Unlike  the  production  of 
the  orotund,  the  metallic  tone  results  from  a  con- 
tracted, constrained  position  of  the  upper  throat 
and  the  organs  of  speech.  When  Miller  talks  as 
he  presses  the  pliers  down  upon  Mrs.  Simms- 
Vane's  hand,  his  voice  has  the  metallic  quality. 
Here  again,  the  realization  of  the  desired  emotional 
shade  in  the  voice  is  enough  to  induce  a  sufficient 
metallic  coloring,  though  an  ability  to  feel  in  part 
what  he  felt,  will  result  in  a  greater  amount  of  the 
desired  quality. 

4.  The  aspirated  or  whispered  quality  is  a  soft- 
ness marking  the  expression  of  the  softer  emotions 
generally,  as  well  as  those  of  mystery,  mild  fear, 
awe,  or  horror.  It  follows  largely  from  the  use 
of  a  greater  amount  of  breath  than  is  normally 
used.  This  condition  results  from  not  bringing 
the  vocal  cords  as  close  together  as  in  normal  emo- 

[48] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

tional  states.  As  with  the  other  qualities,  the  player 
will  attain  something  of  the  desired  emotional 
shading  in  his  voice,  if  he  merely  realizes  that  the 
whispered  quality  is  wanted  in  the  passages  he  is 
to  deliver;  but  he  will  approximate  the  full  amount 
of  the  quality  to  the  degree  that  he  is  able  to  make 
his  own  the  feeling  that  his  character  entertains. 
In  the  "  Turtle  Dove,"  at  the  start  of  the  second 
scene,  Kwen-Lin  speaks  with  the  whispered  qual- 
ity when  she  says,  "  His  fiery  breath  will  wither 
our  blood.  Feel  how  it  scorches  the  grey  veil  of 
night.  He  is  coming  to  consume  us,  he  is  coming 
to  consume  us!  I  fear  his  terrible  rage."  And  her 
next  lines  are  also  marked  with  the  whispered  tone: 
"  The  wine  cup  is  drained,  the  love  songs  all  are 
silenced." 

In  connection  with  the  whispered  quality  it  may 
be  pointed  out  that  the  failure  to  bring  the  vocal 
cords  together,  with  its  resultant  breathiness  of 
voice,  may  be  due  to  physical  weakness  because 
the  muscles  of  the  larynx,  not  being  under  proper 
control,  will  not  bring  the  vocal  cords  normally 
close  together.  Extreme  emotion  will  also  some- 
times result  in  the  partial  paralysis  of  the  muscles 
of  the  larynx,  again  with  the  result  of  making  the 
voice  breathy.  Consequently,  when  a  player  wishes 
to  show  either  great  physical  weakness  or  such  an 
amount  of  feeling  as  would  produce  marked  breathi- 
ness of  voice,  he  should  try  to  secure  a  whispered 
quality.  But  under  these  circumstances,  the  qual- 
ity would  be  a  harsh  rather  than  a  soft  breathiness, 
more  like  the  voice  of  a  person  "  out  of  breath  " 
[49] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

than  that  of  one  whose  tone  is  soft  through  tender- 
ness or  pity.1 

h.  Force.  Force  is  intensity  of  voice.  As  a  rule, 
the  stronger  the  feeling  we  entertain,  the  greater 
the  force  with  which  we  speak.  Important  ideas 
will  for  the  most  part  be  given  forcibly,  but  only 
because  they  are  associated  with  strong  feeling. 

i.  Volume.  Volume  in  speaking  is  amount   of 

[sound  produced.    As  with  Force,  it  is  largely  true 

that  the  stronger  the  feeling,  the  greater  the  amount 

of  volume  in  expression.    But  this  is  the  case  only 

with  strong  feeling  that  is  unrepressed;  repressed 

1  Beauty  of  Voice.  From  what  has  been  said,  it  will  be  plain 
that  correct  voice  quality  is  an  important  matter  in  the  tech- 
nique of  a  player's  delivery.  More  than  that,  the  quality 
of  one's  voice  is  at  all  times  an  indication  of  one's  nature. 
Really,  the  voice  shares  with  the  eye — "the  great  soul's  ap- 
parent seat" — the  importance  of  being  the  most  valuable 
index  of  character.  If  for  no  other  reason  than  that  we  wish 
to  appear  as  well  as  possible  among  our  fellows,  we  should  at 
all  times  be  careful  of  the  quality  of  our  voices.  But  we  can 
make  our  voices  a  softening  and  inspiring  influence  on  our- 
selves: we  all  know  how  hard  it  is  to  be  irritable  when  we 
smile. — no  matter  how  forced  and  mechanical  that  smile 
may  be — for  the  reflex  effect  cannot  be  disregarded.  A  beau- 
tiful tonal  quality  in  the  voice  has  its  effect  upon  the  speaker 
as  well  as  upon  the  hearer.  "Her  voice  was  soft  and  low,  an 
excellent  thing  in  woman."  Excellent  for  its  direct  and  for 
its  reflex  effect.  And  note  that  while  it  was  soft, — the  quality 
— it  was  low — the  pitch.  For  quality,  as  we  have  technically 
used  the  word,  is  not  the  only  element  that  makes  voice  an 
indication  of  character  and  a  developer  of  character.  The 
other  elements  all  have  their  value,  though  quality  is  the  most 
important  element.  The  human  voice  is  an  instrument  of 
limitless  emotional  and  even  spiritual  effectiveness,  and  yet 
we  for  the  most  part  are  oblivious  of  that  effectiveness,  except 
as  we  note  a  voice  of  striking  beauty,  like  Forbes-Robertson's. 
But  a  voice  like  his  should  not  be  the  exception,  and  need  not 
be. 

[50] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

emotion,  however  strong,  is  expressed  by  a  moder- 
ate volume,  although  there  may  be  great  intensity 
(force)  in  the  expression  of  restrained  emotion. 
The  distinction  as  to  volume  is  the  same  as  that 
which  obtains  in  the  matters  of  Rate  and  Pitch: 
strong  feeling  that  is  unrepressed  is  marked  by 
rapid  Rate,  high  Pitch,  and  great  Volume,  whereas 
strong,  repressed  feeling  is  represented  by  a  slow 
Rate,  low  Pitch,  and  moderate  Volume.  Penel- 
ope's reply  to  Antinous's  declaration  of  love  is 
marked  by  very  strong  feeling,  and  Penelope  speaks 
with  much  force;  but  because  the  feeling  is  re- 
pressed, the  expression  is  intense  without  being 
loud. 

j.  Emphasis.  So  far  we  have  spoken  of  the  last 
five  elements  of  oral  delivery  as  matters  concerned 
with  the  direct  expression  of  emotional  states,  or, 
in  the  case  of  Rate,  as  reflecting  the  importance  of 
ideas.  But  all  of  these  elements  have  a  contrast 
value.  That  is,  differences  in  feeling  or  in  thought 
may  be  indicated  by  changes  in  Rate,  Pitch,  Qual- 
ity, Force,  or  Volume.  This  contrast  value  is 
Emphasis.  Changes  in  any  of  these  elements  may 
emphasize  changes  in  feeling,  but  emphasis  is  more 
frequently  employed  to  indicate  relative  impor- 
tance of  ideas.  Thus,  in  the  matter  of  rate,  the  idea 
contained  in  anything  we  say  is  brought  strongly 
to  the  attention  of  our  hearers  if  we  give  the  ex- 
pression either  more  rapidly  or  more  slowly  than 
the  rest  of  what  we  say.  As  an  example  of  emphasis 
secured  by  the  shading  of  volume  and  pitch,  we 
may  take  the  following  passage  from  "  Will  o'  the 
[51] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

Wisp."     The   Lady  is  speaking  to  the  Country- 
woman. 

"Ah,  now  I  understand  you.  You  have  a 
point  of  view;  well,  so  have  the  wives  of  poets. 
Just  as  he  gave  you  comfort  in  return  for  his 
inspiration,  we  give  them  ease  in  which  to  love 
us." 

The  italics  (not  in  the  text)  indicate  the  ex- 
pressions for  which  the  Poet's  Wife  would  probably 
use  an  increased  volume  of  voice  and  a  higher  pitch 
because  the  importance  of  the  thoughts  they  con- 
vey call  for  their  being  emphasized.  Importance 
of  thought  may  be  due  either  to  inherent  value, 
or  to  value  by  contrast.  In  the  passage  quoted, 
the  expressions  now,  so,  and  point  of  view  are  im- 
portant because  of  the  idea  they  express  by  them- 
selves; the  other  italicized  expressions  are  impor- 
tant because  of  the  contrast  they  imply  or  express; 
we,  for  example,  contrasting  with  he,  and  ease  with 
comfort. 

In  connection  with  the  securing  of  emphasis, 
the  matter  of  Pause  should  particularly  be  borne 
in  mind.  A  pause  before  an  expression,  or  a  pause 
following  it,  or  pauses  both  before  and  after  it, 
will  cause  the  attention  to  be  strongly  centered  on 
the  word  or  words  thus  set  off.  Thus,  to  emphasize 
the  word  now  in  the  passage  just  quoted,  we  might 
pause  both  before  and  after  it.  In  the  same  way, 
we  might  pause  before,  or  before  and  after,  any  of 
the  other  italicized  expressions  and  emphasize  it 
in  doing  so.  This  use  of  pause  constitutes  the 
phrasing  for  emphasis  to  which  reference  was 
[52] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

made  on  page  36.  It  will  be  noticed  that  the 
emphasis  pauses  sometimes  coincide  with  the 
pauses  in  phrasing  for  clearness.  The  more  ex- 
perience a  player  or  any  other  public  speaker  has 
had,  the  more  he  realizes  the  emphasis  value  of 
pause. 

k.  Inflection.  Closely  connected  with  Emphasis 
is  the  matter  of  Conventional  Inflection.  This 
has  to  do  with  Pitch  and  Volume.  In  the  section 
on  Pitch,  that  element  was  shown  to  be  a  factor  in 
Inflection;  the  relation  of  Volume  to  Inflection 
will  be  evident  if  we  take  the  words  that  the  Poet's 
Wife  speaks  immediately  following  the  remarks 
we  quoted  a  moment  ago.  She  goes  on  to  say, 
"  Why  shouldn't  we?  "  Here  the  most  important 
word  so  far  as  the  thought  is  concerned  is  why. 
But  an  American  would  undoubtedly,  as  a  matter 
of  conventional  inflection,  give  the  expression 
shouldn't  with  greater  volume  of  voice  than  the 
other  words,  at  the  same  time — also  as  a  matter  of 
conventional  inflection — speaking  it  with  a  some- 
what higher  pitch  than  either  the  why  or  the  we. 
Conventional  inflection  is  necessary  to  avoid  a 
monotony  of  speech,  which  would  result  if  pitch 
or  volume  were  heightened  only  to  express  shading 
of  thought  or  feeling.  American  inflection  is  com- 
pounded, as  we  have  just  seen,  of  variations  in 
pitch  and  volume.  Inflection  among  the  people 
of  Great  Britain  has  less  to  do  with  volume  than 
is  the  case  with  us,  and  depends  more  largely  upon 
pitch.  Thus,  most  British  people  would  say, 
"  Why  shouldn't  we?  "  using  practically  the  same 
[53] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

volume  for  all  the  words,  but  giving  a  higher  pitch 
to  the  first  and  last  than  to  the  shouldn't.  This 
illustrates  the  undulating  rise  and  fall  of  emphasis 
that  marks  British  inflection  and  that  is  absent  in 
our  flatter  American  speech.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
inflection,  since  it  is  wholly  a  conventional  mat- 
ter, is  so  largely  a  thing  of  habit  with  us  all  that  we 
need  pay  little  attention  to  it  beyond  realizing 
that  it  must  not  be  disregarded. 

1.  Pronunciation.  So  far,  nothing  has  been  said 
of  the  matter  of  pronunciation.  This  is  not  be- 
cause correct  pronunciation  is  not  extremely  im- 
portant in  acting,  but  because  in  all  English  class- 
rooms the  matter  is  appreciated  at  its  real  value, 
and  the  writer  of  this  book  knows  that  in  the  class- 
room work  with  these  plays  it  will  receive  proper 
attention  without  definite  suggestion  from  him. 
Where  a  mistake  in  pronunciation  is  made,  the 
attention  of  the  audience  is  immediately  centered 
upon  it,  and  what  the  player  is  saying  is  for  the 
moment  largely  disregarded.  More  than  this,  a 
wrong  pronunciation  (unless  the  part  calls  for  this 
as  a  matter  of  characterization)  will  spoil  the  at- 
mosphere of  the  scene  in  which  it  occurs,  for  what- 
ever emotional  spell  is  being  woven  will  immediately 
be  snapped  by  anything  so  remote  from  the  proper 
spirit  of  the  situation.  So  important  has  the  matter 
of  pronunciation  always  been  considered  by  actors, 
that  in  France,  where  there  is  a  national  theater, 
the  pronunciation  of  the  actors  in  that  theater 
has  for  years  been  accepted  throughout  the  country 
as  the  standard. 

[54] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

Where  a  stage  character  is  not  conceived  by  the 
dramatist  to  be  a  person  of  education,  incorrect 
pronunciation  of  certain  words  will  doubtless  be 
indicated  in  the  text;  if  this  is  not  done,  incorrect 
pronunciations  may  be  purposely  given  by  the 
players.  In  such  cases,  what  would  be  an  error 
in  the  speech  of  cultured  and  educated  people 
becomes  under  the  circumstances  the  proper  pro- 
nunciation  for   the   occasion. 

In  the  plays  contained  in  this  book,  there  is  little 
or  no  call  for  dialect  in  the  reading  of  the  lines. 
Nora,  in  "  Will  o'  the  Wisp,"  may  speak  with 
more  or  less  brogue,  and  the  characters  in  "  Spread- 
ing the  News,"  except  the  magistrate,  may  use 
brogue  also,  though  this  is  not  necessary.  No 
direction  can  well  be  given  here  for  the  mechanical 
production  of  dialect,  which  must  always  be  largely 
a  matter  of  imitation.  The  writer  believes  that  in 
the  speaking  of  each  language  there  are  certain 
typical,  distinctive  tendencies  in  the  use  of  the 
organs  of  speech,  which  largely  give  each  language 
its  individual  quality.  Thus  the  Scotch  and  Irish 
seem  not  to  open  their  mouths  as  much  as  the  Eng- 
lish and  the  Americans  do;  certainly  the  speech 
sounds  are  formed  further  toward  the  front  of  the 
mouth  in  the  case  of  the  Scotch  and  Irish,  and  the 
consonants  are  more  sharply  and  distinctly  spoken. 
But  it  is  idle  to  give  rules  for  what  is  essentially 
a  matter  of  imitation.  In  general,  it  is  well  not  to 
make  the  peculiarities  of  dialect  very  strong.  A 
slight  tinge  is  all  that  is  necessary  to  give  the  dis- 
tinctive shading  required. 
f551 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 


Aids  to  Effective  Oral  Interpretation 

1.  Pause.  The  pause  for  phrasing  and  the  pause 
for  emphasis  have  been  mentioned.  The  pause 
is  also  useful  for  the  purpose  of  making  effective 
a  change  in  thought  or  feeling.  In  "  The  Turtle 
Dove,"  at  the  end  of  the  first  scene,  Kwen-lin 
says,  "  Let  us  fly  on  our  illustrious  legs,  and  be 
married  with  the  six  ceremonies,  before  my  father 
returns.  I  like  that  lip  magic.  It  makes  singing 
here."  In  this  case  there  is  a  change  in  both 
thought  and  feeling  after  the  expression  "  before 
my  father  returns."  A  real  Kwen-lin  would  pause 
here,  for  neither  she  nor  anyone  else  would  run  the 
expression  of  one  idea  right  on  to  the  expression  of 
another.  And  even  if  the  thought  of  the  two  parts 
of  what  she  says  were  connected,  so  long  as  they 
were  marked  by  distinct  emotional  states  there 
would  be  the  need  for  pausing  to  make  the  transi- 
tion seem  natural.  When  Kwen-lin  makes  her 
proposal  to  fly,  she  speaks  rapidly  because  the 
thought  is  rapid  and  also  because  the  feeling  of 
eagerness  is  unrepressed  and  is  not  one  of  the  more 
quiet,  subdued  emotions.  Feeling  as  she  does,  she 
speaks  with  a  somewhat  high  pitch  of  voice.  All 
this  is  changed  when  she  declares  her  liking  for 
Chang-sut-yen' s  kisses:  here  her  feeling  is  one  of 
quiet  pleasure,  and  it  is  certainly  repressed  to  a 
considerable  extent,  for  she  speaks  shyly,  with 
much  maidenly  reserve;  consequently  she  will  speak 
slowly  and  with  a  distinctly  low  pitch  of  voice. 
The  pause  prepares  for  this  change,  and  it  may  be 
[561 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

stated  as  a  rule  that  we  should  pause  before  a 
change  in  thought  or  feeling. 

For  yet  other  reasons  than  those  that  have  been 
mentioned,  a  proper  use  of  Pause  makes  for  ef- 
fectiveness in  the  Auditory  Appeal.  For  one 
thing,  people  naturally  pause  before  making  a  reply 
when  they  have  just  heard  something  that  demands 
a  moment's  consideration  before  it  can  be  answered. 
Hesitation,  likewise,  always  calls  for  slow  delivery, 
often  with  one  or  more  noticeable  pauses  in  the 
course  of  a  single  statement  or  question.  Again, 
Pause  may  be  an  aid  in  making  the  general  manner 
of  speaking  fit  the  character.  As  an  example  of 
this,  take  the  lines  of  the  Chief  Prophet  in  "  The 
Golden  Doom,"  which  will  be  particularly  ef- 
fective if  they  are  preceded  by  pauses.  A  real 
chief  prophet,  in  order  to  arouse  suspense  in  his 
hearers,  would  purposely  pause  before  making  his 
pronouncements  and  explanations,  and  a  player 
in  this  role  who  makes  such  pauses  increases  the 
realistic  rendering  of  his  part. 

2.  Mannerisms.  What  has  just  been  said  brings 
us  to  the  matter  of  making  the  way  in  which  a 
character  speaks  emphasize  his  individuality.  The 
repeated  use  of  any  definite  peculiarity  of  speech 
will  help  to  this  end,  provided  the  peculiarity  is 
one  that  accentuates  any  quality  that  is  strongly 
marked.  Such  a  peculiarity  may  be  a  rapidity  or 
a  slowness  in  speech,  a  trick  of  pausing,  a  certain 
emphatic  manner  of  enunciation,  a  nasality  or 
gruffness  of  voice, — in  short,  any  stressing  of  any 
element  of  oral  delivery.  A  peculiarity  of  this  sort 
[57] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

that  is  consistently  employed  is  a  mannerism  of 
speech.  There  is  a  real  danger  in  the  use  of  such 
mannerisms,  however:  it  is  very  easy  to  develop 
them,  and  if  we  are  not  careful,  we  may  find  our- 
selves trusting  too  much  to  them,  so  that  our  char- 
acterization will  be  very  superficial.  Again,  if 
mannerisms  are  at  all  overdone,  the  characteriza- 
tion becomes  a  caricature. 

3.  Fully  Loading  the  Lines.  It  is  true  that  few 
of  us  can  so  identify  ourselves  with  our  stage  char- 
acters that  we  find  ourselves  feeling  just  what  they 
feel.  Until  we  can  do  that,  we  must  trust  for  ef- 
fectiveness in  our  auditory  appeal  to  an  analysis 
of  our  lines.  Such  an  analysis  will  show  us  what 
ideas  our  character  entertains,  and  how  he  feels. 
Next,  we  must  seek  to  make  his  thoughts  and  emo- 
tions plain  in  the  way  we  speak,  bearing  in  mind 
what  we  have  said  about  the  value  of  the  several 
elements  of  oral  expression.  A  common  fault 
with  young  players  is  that  they  do  not  make  the 
thought  sufficiently  emphatic  or  the  feeling  suf- 
ficiently plain.  A  very  good  rule  for  us  to  follow 
is:  Express  all  the  feeling  that  the  lines  will  prop- 
erly carry,  and  present  the  thought  just  as  emphat- 
ically as  the  language  warrants.  Where  more 
expression  is  given  than  the  fines  warrant,  the 
reading  becomes  theatric  and  artificial;  but  high 
school  students  are  very  seldom  guilty  of  this 
fault.  They  are  wont  to  underexpress  their  lines, 
and  underexpression  makes  for  colorlessness  in 
characterization,  and  for  failure  to  bring  out  the 
full  value  of  any  given  situation.  We  should  con- 
[58] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

stantly  ask  ourselves,  "  Are  we  making  the  thought 
and  the  feeling  just  as  evident  as  we  possibly  can, — 
in  other  words,  are  we  properly  loading  the  lines?  " 
A  fully  expressive  reading  of  our  lines  will  tend 
to  make  us  feel  our  role.  Just  as  we  cannot  smile 
without  feeling  more  pleasant  than  otherwise, 
so  in  giving  our  lines  with  all  the  feeling  they  should 
carry,  we  come  actually  to  feel  more  as  our  char- 
acter feels  than  we  should  otherwise  be  able  to. 
Such  a  reaction  is  very  valuable,  for  the  more  we 
can  feel  our  part,  the  more  natural  our  work  be- 
comes, and  the  less  we  have  to  depend  upon  con- 
scious analysis  of  thought  and  feeling. 

6.  The  Visual  Appeal 

We  have  seen  that  the  player's  delivery  of  his 
lines  constitutes  the  Auditory  Appeal.  The  Visual 
Appeal  is  what  the  player  does;  it  comprises  facial 
expression,  gesture,  and  action.  By  the  way  we 
read  our  lines,  if  we  read  them  well,  we  can  do 
much  to  show  the  kind  of  person  our  character  is 
and  to  make  plain  what  he  thinks  and  how  he  feels. 
By  what  we  do,  if  our  facial  expression,  gestures, 
and  action  are  good,  we  strengthen  our  character 
portrayal  and  make  plainer  the  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings of  the  man  whose  part  we  play.  We  shall  the 
better  realize  the  effectiveness  of  a  proper  visual 
appeal  when  we  recall  that  the  moving  picture 
actor  gets  his  results  entirely  through  his  appeal  to 
the  eye.  Indeed,  since  students  are  given  to  relying 
too  much  on  their  appeal  to  the  ear,  it  would  be 
[59] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

interesting  as  well  as  instructive  to  try  the  experi- 
ment of  acting  some  situation  in  one  of  our  plays  as 
though  we  were  performing  for  the  camera. 

a.  Facial  Expression.  The  young  player  need 
hardly  be  afraid  of  overdoing  his  facial  expression 
any  more  than  he  need  be  afraid  of  putting  too 
much  expression  in  the  way  he  reads  his  lines.  A 
professional  director  may  caution  his  actors  and 
actresses  against  so  much  use  of  the  eyes,  mouth, 
and  face  muscles  as  would  result  in  grimacing; 
but  high  school  students  are  given  to  too  great 
woodenness  of  face  rather  than  to  over-expression. 
The  rule  for  the  young  player  is  to  use  as  much 
facial  expression  as  the  lines  will  properly  carry. 
For  the  stronger  unrepressed  feelings,  the  whole  face 
can  easily  be  made  to  reflect  the  emotion  that  the 
circumstances  demand.  To  express  rage,  the  face 
may  be  contorted  by  a  heavy  scowl  and  a  drawing 
back  of  the  corners  of  the  mouth  so  as  to  show  the 
teeth.  But  the  use  of  the  eyes  and  mouth  is  gener- 
ally sufficient  to  suggest  the  dominant  feeling. 
A  stare,  coupled  with  a  partly  dropped  lower  jaw, 
will  suggest  horror  or  amazement.  A  pursed  mouth 
and  slight  frown  will  express  a  moderate  amount  of 
anger  or  will  indicate  much  repressed  anger.  A 
smile  and  a  slight  raising  of  the  eyebrows  will  show 
pleasure.  A  sidelong  glance  may  denote  suspicion 
or,  together  with  contracted  eyebrows,  dislike. 
This  is  said  only  by  way  of  illustration,  and  it 
should  be  remarked  that  merely  conventional 
facial  expressions  are  to  be  avoided.  Our  work  will 
be  grimacing  where  we  simply  "  register  "  cut  and 

r  601  * 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

dried  conventional  facial  attitudes  that  we  have  on 
tap,  as  it  were.  We  must  make  a  real  effort,  after 
realizing  how  our  character  feels  at  a  given  point 
in  the  play,  to  express  that  feeling  as  our  character 
would  express  it.  A  facial  expression  that  would  be 
proper  for  one  character  would  be  unnatural  or  in- 
appropriate for  another.  Of  course,  we  should  try- 
to  feel  just  as  our  character  does;  but  if  this  is  diffi- 
cult, we  can  at  least  show  his  feelings  as  we  think  he 
would  show  them.  When  we  employ  a  fitting  facial 
expression,  the  physical  attitude  will  react  upon 
us  to  make  us  entertain  some  degree  of  the  proper 
emotion;  and  when  we  feel  an  emotion  ourselves,  the 
expression  of  it  becomes  largely  instinctive. 

So  far  we  have  spoken  of  facial  expression  as  a 
means  of  making  clear  the  emotional  state  of  the 
character  to  be  represented.  But  certain  facial 
expressions  may  very  properly  be  used  as  manner- ' 
isms.  In  our  study  of  our  role  we  have  analyzed 
our  stage  personality  and  determined  the  predom- 
inant quality  of  thought  and  feeling  that  our  char- 
acter shows.  Most  people  develop  little  tricks 
or  mannerisms  of  facial  expression,  and  to  make  our 
characterization  fully  effective  we  should  de- 
termine what  such  mannerisms  it  would  be  proper 
to  use.  A  frown,  a  pursing  of  the  lips,  a  half- 
closing  of  the  eyes,  a  smile,— all  are  facial  expres- 
sions that  may  be  used  so  often  as  to  constitute 
mannerisms  that  will  lend  individuality  to  our 
characterization.  It  should  be  unnecessary  to  add 
that  any  mannerism  must  be  in  keeping  with  our 
character's  predominant  qualities. 
[61] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

b.  Gestures.  Gestures  are  chiefly  motions  with 
the  hands  and  arms,  but  the  term  also  includes  the 
bodily  bearing,  and  motions  of  the  head  as  well. 
Gestures  must  never  be  partial  and  incomplete 
unless  an  instinctive,  half-expressed  feeling  is  to  be 
shown.  Oftentimes  a  student  while  reading  his 
part  makes  half-formed  gestures  that  are  wholly 
impulsive.  These  instinctive  movements  show 
that  the  player  is  inside  his  part  so  far  as  the  emo- 
tion is  concerned;  but  since  his  gestures  are  not 
developed  beyond  impulsive  jerks  or  half-motions, 
they  are  ineffective.  It  is  well  to  remember  that 
if  a  gesture  is  worth  making  at  all  it  is  worth  making 
properly,  and  a  good  rule  to  follow  is  "  No  gesture 
that  is  not  a  complete  one."  Sometimes  a  role  calls 
for  an  intentional  crudeness  in  the  visual  appeal; 
in  such  a  case,  half-formed  gestures  may  be  very 
effective,  but  these  cases  are  rare.  Gestures  are 
to  be  used  when  there  is  an  emotion  to  be  definitely 
expressed,  or  a  thought  that  calls  for  gesticulation 
to  make  it  plain  or  forceful;  but  gestures  are  needed 
to  express  thought  far  less  frequently  than  to  ex- 
press emotion.  Any  over-gesticulation  is  bad, 
but  over-gesticulation  in  expressing  thought  is 
especially  bad;  when  we  are  in  doubt  whether  to 
use  a  gesture  in  order  to  express  an  idea,  we  should 
decide  against  doing  so.  But  the  danger  of  too 
much  gesture  to  show  feeling  is  not  so  great;  and 
if  we  are  uncertain  whether  to  gesticulate  to  ex- 
press emotion,  we  need  not  hesitate  to  try  the  effect. 

Gestures  should  always  be  natural,  not  conven- 
tional. We  must  not  merely  "  saw  the  air  "  or 
[62]  " 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

wave  the  hand  to  show  that  we  feel  strongly.  No 
one  stock  gesture  is  to  be  used  whenever  a  certain 
emotion  is  to  be  indicated.  The  player  who  uses 
set  gestures  to  "  register  "  the  various  emotions 
will  conventionalize  his  work,  and  his  gesticulation 
will  be  ineffective  and  theatric.  Our  gestures  must 
be  the  sort  that  our  character  would  use,  not  the 
kind  we  might  ourselves  employ.  Eumaeus,  in 
"  Ulysses/ '  is  a  rougher,  cruder  man  than  the 
prince  Antinous,  and  his  gestures  are  less  graceful 
than  those  of  the  younger  man.  The  Country- 
woman, in  "  Will  o'  the  Wisp,"  will  use  cruder 
gestures  than  the  Poet's  Wife,  who  shows  the 
graces  of  refined  living. 

Another  point  to  remember  is  that  it  is  well  to: 
let  the  gesture  precede  the  remark  it  is  to  illustrate. 
This  both  prepares  for  the  spoken  word,  and  pro- 
vides two  separate  expressions  of  the  thought  or 
emotion  rather  than  one  double  one,  with  the  result 
that  the  effect  is  greater. 

A  very  important  matter  is  the  question  of  how 
well  any  desired  mood  is  implied  in  our  general 
bearing.  Sitting  or  standing,  we  must  at  any 
time  be  erect  or  leaning  forward  or  inclining  back- 
ward, and  our  choice  of  these  physical  attitudes 
should  reflect  our  dominant  mental  attitude.  If 
the  mood  that  we  should  show  is  aggressive  to  any 
degree,  we  should  lean  somewhat  forward.  On 
the  contrary,  if  our  mental  attitude  is  to  be  at  all 
either  defensive  or  reposeful,  we  should  certainly 
not  lean  forward;  in  such  a  case  the  axis  of  the  body 
should  be  inclined  somewhat  backward.  In  acting, 
[63] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

it  is  well  to  decide  for  each  situation  whether  an 
aggressive  or  a  non-aggressive  inclination  of  the 
body  is  the  proper  one  to  assume.  A  player  who 
feels  a  bit  self-conscious  during  a  scene  may  be 
disposed  to  take  a  restful  attitude  in  an  uncon- 
scious attempt  to  seem  at  ease;  but  if  an  aggressive 
posture  is  clearly  called  for,  he  must  throw  the 
weight  of  the  body  forward.  In  connection  with 
this  matter,  let  us  remember  that  the  nature  of  a 
player's  gestures  must  suit  his  general  physical 
attitude.  Miller,  when  he  threatens  Mrs.  Simms- 
Vane,  will  bend  menacingly  toward  her.  In  keep- 
ing with  this  aggressive  posture,  he  may  very 
likely  point  his  finger  at  her;  certainly  he  should 
not  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  for  that  is  a  gesture 
indicating  repose. 

Gestures,  like  facial  expressions,  may  be  used 
for  the  special  purpose  of  providing  mannerisms 
for  stage  personalities.  The  hands,  for  example, 
may  repeatedly  be  elapsed  behind  the  back,  or  the 
arms  folded  across  the  chest,  as  though  such  were  a 
habit.  Miller,  in  "  Two  Crooks  and  a  Lady," 
may  be  given  a  trick  of  opening  and  closing  his 
fingers,  or  quickly  glancing  about  him.  The  Coun- 
try-woman, in  "Will  o'  the  Wisp,"  may  be  made  to 
shake  her  head  frequently.  The  employment  of 
such  mannerisms  not  only  helps  to  make  the  acting 
effective,  but  aids  the  player  to  get  the  spirit  of 
the  r61e,  provided,  of  course,  that  the  gestures 
selected  be  plainly  in  keeping  with  the  fundamental 
traits  of  the  character  he  is  playing. 

c.  Action.  Action  that  is  more  than  gesticula- 
[64] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

tion  is  called  for  in  the  playing  of  any  part  except 
such  a  one  as  that  of  Mrs,  Simms-Vane  in  "  Two 
Crooks  and  a  Lady."  In  present-day  plays,  the 
more  important  movements  will  be  mentioned  in 
the  dramatist's  stage  directions;  but  there  is  al- 
ways opportunity  for  much  effective  minor  action 
or  by-play.  To  conceive  this  calls  for  some  imagi- 
nation on  our  part  as  players;  but  if  we  constantly 
ask  ourselves  "  What  would  the  character  we  are 
representing  do  now?  "  we  shall  doubtless  conceive 
sufficient  action,  or  "  business,"  to  make  our  work 
realistic. 

We  must,  however,  remember  that  no  business 
is  proper  that  is  effective  merely  for  itself  and  does 
not  illuminate  the  thought  or  feeling  to  be  ex- 
pressed, aid  the  characterization,  or  further  the 
effect  of  the  scene  as  a  whole.  This  principle  is 
discussed  in  the  section  on  "Team- Work";  but 
it  may  be  repeated  here  that  no  action  is  proper  (1) 
that  is  out  of  keeping  with  the  spirit  of  the  situa- 
tion and  of  the  play  as  a  whole,  (2)  that  takes  the 
interest  from  the  main  incidents  of  a  situation,  (3) 
that  centers  it  upon  a  player  who  is  not  so  dra- 
matically important  as  another,  (4)  that  fails  to 
be  as  helpful  as  possible  to  another  player  in  his 
attempts  to  secure  effects,  (5)  that  does  not  pro- 
vide as  far  as  possible  for  effects  later  on  in  the 
play,  (6)  that  tends  to  make  a  dramatically  unim- 
portant part  of  the  play  so  impressive  as  to  de- 
tract from  the  effectiveness  of  the  dramatically  "  big 
moments,"  (7)  that  does  not  make  for  the  most  ef- 
fective grouping  of  the  players  who  are  on  the  stage. 
[65] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

For  the  most  part,  a  player  will  make  his  rdle 
the  more  life-like  the  more  he  can  find  to  do,  pro- 
vided the  business  is  not  open  to  one  of  the  seven 
objections  just  mentioned.  But  whatever  he  does 
must  either  help  the  play  as  a  whole,  or  illuminate 
his  own  characterization.  It  is  really  a  very  inter- 
esting problem  to  determine  what  the  character 
one  is  representing  would  do,  were  the  characters 
and  the  situation  real. 

Frequently  repeated  acts  or  practices  of  the 
nature  of  mannerisms  may  be  conceived,  and  such 
are  always  effective.  Care  must,  however,  be  taken 
to  keep  them  in  harmony  with  the  predominant 
features  of  the  personality  to  be  represented.  The 
Magistrate  in  "  Spreading  the  News"  may  make 
greater  use  of  a  notebook  than  the  dramatist's 
direction  calls  for,  since  that  would  tend  to  make 
plain  his  petty,  foolish  devotion  to  the  unessentials 
of  his  duties.  In  this  particular  play  it  is  very  im- 
portant that  the  players  conceive  the  characters 
as  distinct  from  one  another  and  play  their  r61es 
accordingly,  for  the  author  has  not  provided  de- 
scriptions of  the  people,  and  although  the  careful 
reader  will  see  that  the  characters  are  as  highly  in- 
dividualized as  they  are  brilliantly  conceived,  the 
inexperienced  reader  may  fail  to  grasp  from  the 
text  all  the  points  of  differentiation.  As  a  rule, 
the  several  people  in  any  play  should  be  strongly 
distinguished  in  the  visual  appeal.  Sometimes, 
however,  the  dramatist  does  not  care  to  individual- 
ize the  minor  characters  whose  personalities  are 
unimportant:  indeed,  to  do  so  may  detract  from 
T661 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

the  effectiveness  of  plays  where  certain  minor 
characters  are  to  be  regarded  as  picturesque  types. 
The  Spies,  in  "  The  Golden  Doom,"  are  not  in- 
dividualized by  the  dramatist,  probably  for  this 
reason;  but  different  ways  of  moving  across  the 
stage  may  be  devised  by  the  three  players  who  re- 
present them,  or  the  three  spies  may  all  be  given 
what  we  might  call  a  type  or  class  mannerism, — 
say,  moving  with  a  crouching  gait.  Except  in 
minor  parts  where  the  dramatist  has  not  cared  to 
individualize  the  personalities,  type  mannerisms 
should  be  sparingly  used.  The  so-called  "  stage  " 
Englishman,  Irishman,  German,  Frenchman,  China- 
man, are  examples  of  type  mannerisms  being 
made  to  take  the  place  of  individual  character 
representation,  and  these  "  stage  "  types  for  the 
most  part  should  be  avoided,  for  they  cannot  be 
vital  representations  if  they  lack  individuality. 

"  Properties  "  often  help  much  in  making  one's 
character  distinctive  or  colorful.  The  Country- 
woman  in  "  Will  o'  the  Wisp  "  may  well  use  a  cane, 
Ulysses  in  Phillips'  play  will  have  his  beggar's 
wallet,  and  the  King  in  the  "  Golden  Doom " 
will  wear  his  crown.  The  dice-boxes  and  the  dice 
in  "  Allison's  Lad  "  will  help  the  three  players  to 
get  the  spirit  of  the  situation,  and  each  can  hold 
and  use  the  dice-box  in  a  distinctive  and  character- 
istic way.  Costumes,  where  they  can  be  used, 
will  also  prove  a  very  great  help  in  the  characteri- 
zation, being  important  as  much  for  their  effect 
upon  the  wearers  themselves  as  for  their  appeal  to 
the  audience. 

[671 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

\  The  art  of  "  doing  nothing  "  is  a  difficult  one  to 
master.  There  are  times  in  every  play  where  a 
player  must  "  do  nothing,"  either  because  the  char- 
acter he  is  representing  would  naturally  stand  or 
sit  still,  or  because  his  moving  would  detract  from 
the  effect  that  another  character,  more  important 
dramatically,  should  obtain.  However,  a  player 
never  does  absolutely  nothing.  Perhaps  he  does 
not  move,  but  he  will  probably  in  some  way  show 
a  reaction  to  what  is  being  done  or  said.  Suppose 
he  has  merely  to  listen:  then  he  can  at  least  seem 
to  be  interested;  or,  if  he  ought  to  appear  to  be  in- 
different to  what  is  going  on,  he  can  let  the  au- 
dience know  that  this  indifference  is  assumed. 
He  may  show  this  either  by  an  expression  of  face, 
or  by  a  gesture  not  to  be  seen  by  the  other  players 
but  visible  to  the  audience.  A  good  rule  is,  "Act 
all  the  time  even  when  you  are  ■  doing  nothing.' " 

The  Pale-faced  Girl,  in  "  Will  o'the  Wisp,"  has  a 
part  that  is  played  wholly  by  facial  expression, 
gesture,  and  action,  for  she  does  not  speak  a  word. 
Part  of  the  time  she  has  "  nothing  to  do,"  and  yet 
her  bearing  during  the  time  that  she  is  motionless 
is  eloquent,  and  her  face  expresses  just  enough 
feeling  to  give  a  hint  of  her  identity.  When  the 
Poet's  Wife  speaks  belittlingly  of  the  Poet,  the 
Pale-faced  Girl  makes  her  own  feelings  plain  in  her 
facial  expression  and  action,  and  by  these  means 
she  also  makes  very  plain  the  full  force  of  what  the 
Poet's  Wife  says.  Later  on,  of  course,  she  domin- 
ates the  scene;  but  her  earlier  work  affords  a  good 
example  of  "  business  "  that,  while  effective  in  the 
[68] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

expression  of  character,  aids  in  developing  a  situa- 
tion and  strengthening  the  atmosphere  of  a  play. 

In  our  "  action,"  we  should  bear  in  mind  certain 
mechanical  matters.  When  we  take  a  single  step 
forward  while  we  are  facing  either  the  right  or  the 
left  side  of  the  "  stage,"  we  should  use  the  foot 
that  is  further  from  the  audience.  And  the  same 
principle  applies  to  movements  of  the  arms  and 
hands.  The  reason  for  this  is  that  if  we  face  the 
left  of  the  stage,  our  left  side  is  further  from  the 
audience,  and  a  step  forward  with  the  left  foot, 
or  backward  with  the  right  one,  tends  to  swing  the 
body  so  that  we  shall  more  nearly  face  the  front. 
It  is  to  be  remembered,  in  the  matter  of  stage  direc- 
tions, that  "  Right"  and  "Left"  refer  to  the 
actor's  right  and  left  when  he  is  facing  the  audience, 
and  that  "  Front  "  and  "  Down  "  mean  nearer  the 
audience,  while  "  Up  "  and  "  Back  "  mean  away 
from  it.  It  is  of  great  importance,  too,  that 
we  should  seek  to  face  the  audience  as  nearly  as 
possible.  Perhaps  we  cannot,  at  times,  stand  at 
an  angle  of  much  more  than  90  degrees  from  the 
back  wall;  still,  by  observing  the  principles  just 
laid  down  for  the  use  of  our  arms  and  feet,  we  can 
be  sure  that  the  angle  is  as  great  as  we  can  possibly 
make  it. 

These  are  mechanical  matters,  but  the  mechan- 
ics must  be  cloaked  with  an  appearance  of  natural- 
ness. Naturalness,  which  is  without  price  in  act- 
ing, is  much  more  than  gracefulness;  we  cannot 
be  natural  unless  what  we  do  seems  appropriate 
and  reasonable.  The  expression  of  ideas  or  states 
[69] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

of  feeling  may  be  cause  enough  for  acts  that  serve 
no  other  purpose,  but  sometimes  the  exigencies 
of  a  situation  call  for  a  movement  that  must  be 
adroitly  prepared  for.  For  example,  suppose  a 
player,  who  has  been  busy  at  one  side  of  the  stage, 
has  to  do  something  later  at  the  other  side.  Very 
likely  the  dramatist  will  have  provided  a  reason 
for  his  crossing  over;  but  if  not,  the  player  must 
not  simply  walk  across  the  stage  for  no  reason 
that  the  audience  can  see  except  that  of  getting 
to  the  other  side.  In  such  a  case,  he  must  con- 
ceive some  "  business  "  that  will  provide  a  rea- 
son for  his  change  of  position. 

Summary:  The  Interpretation  in  Brief 

In  the  sections  on  the  Situations,  Realizing  the 
Setting,  Acting  as  Team-work,  Getting  Inside  the 
Character,  the  Auditory  Appeal,  and  the  Visual 
Appeal,  certain  principles  of  dramatic  interpreta- 
tion have  been  presented.  These  principles  under- 
lie the  technique  of  the  actor's  work,  and  the  stu- 
dent who  carefully  observes  them  will  find  his 
interpretation  sound.  It  is  not  to  be  understood 
that  in  our  expression  we  are  to  deliberate  upon 
just  what  rate  of  speech,  what  quality,  force,  and 
volume  of  voice,  we  should  employ  in  rendering 
each  phrase;  or  that  we  are  to  determine  our  every 
facial  expression,  gesture,  and  movement  only 
after  deciding  what  principles  of  the  visual  appeal 
seem  to  be  concerned.  Where  we  have  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  principles  of  expression,  we  shall  be 
[70] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

likely  to  avoid  error  in  our  work,  even  though  we 
do  not  consciously  make  the  effort  to  recall  just 
the  particular  principle  that  applies  in  each  detail 
of  our  expression.  However,  there  will  be  many 
occasions  where  we  shall  find  ourselves  in  doubt 
as  to  just  how  we  should  express  ourselves,  and  in 
such  cases  a  consideration  of  the  principle  involved 
will  enable  us  to  adopt  the  correct  expression. 

When  we  have  made  the  general  study  of  the 
play,  as  outlined  in  Chapter  I,  we  should  proceed 
to  study  the  situations  in  the  play,  and  to  realize 
the  setting.  Next,  each  of  us  should  seek  to  "  get 
inside  "  the  character  assigned  to  us.  After  this 
comes  the  acting  itself,  where  our  problem  is  to 
express  adequately  the  thought  and  feeling  of 
each  passage  in  our  part,  and  to  do  this  so  as  to 
make  evident  the  individuality  of  the  character 
we  represent.  In  our  work  we  must  now  constantly 
ask  ourselves  the  five  questions  printed  on  page  39. 
It  is  not  a  laborious  task  to  make  sure  that  we 
realize  the  different  ideas  that  we  must  make  plain 
and  the  various  feelings  that  we  must  show,  or 
to  make  sure  that  we  are  doing  all  we  can  to  ex- 
press these  in  the  way  we  speak  and  in  what  we  do. 
The  thing  to  remember  here  is  that  we  must  make 
the  delivery  of  every  sentence  count,  and  that  we 
must  be  expressing  ourselves  constantly  in  facial 
expression,  gesture,  and  movement,  or  in  the  de- 
liberate omission  of  any  or  all  of  these  phases  of 
the  visual  appeal. 

This,  in  brief,  is  our  procedure.  One  point  should 
be  stressed:  it  is  that  we  must  seek  to  "make 
[71] 


DETAILED  INTERPRETATION 

believe  "  in  the  sense  of  making  ourselves  believe 
in  our  r61e.  The  suggestions  in  this  book  have 
been  devised  for  those  who  find  it  difficult  to  feel 
the  part  they  are  playing.  If  a  student  realizes 
the  setting,  if  he  makes  a  careful  analysis  of  the 
situations,  if  he  studies  his  stage  character  and  the 
thought  and  feeling  in  each  passage  of  his  part, 
and  if  he  follows  this  by  making  a  genuine  effort 
in  the  auditory  and  the  visual  appeal,  he  will 
speak  and  act  so  like  the  character  that  before 
long  he  will  find  himself  unconsciously  thinking 
and  feeling  much  as  the  character  does.  The  point 
has  been  made  more  than  once  that  when  we  smile 
we  cannot  feel  so  ungracious  as  we  might  otherwise 
feel,  and  that  when  we  frown  or  assume  any  other 
unpleasant  facial  expression,  it  becomes  the  harder 
for  us  to  entertain  a  pleasant  attitude.  The  same 
relation  between  physical  states  on  the  one  hand, 
and  mental  and  emotional  states  on  the  other, 
obtains  for  every  shade  of  facial  expression,  ges- 
ture, and  action,  and  for  every  element  of  speech. 
For  this  reason,  when  we  play  our  role  as  well  as 
we  can,  we  find  that  we  unconsciously  assume  more 
or  less  of  the  mental  and  emotional  attitudes  of 
the  character  we  represent;  we  re-act  to  the  physi- 
cal states  (of  voice  and  body)  by  which  we  seek 
to  express  those  same  attitudes  of  our  character. 
In  other  words,  the  more  we  act  and  speak  as  our 
character  would,  the  more  we  think  and  feel  as  he 
does,  and  consequently  the  easier  it  becomes  to 
act  and  speak  like  him  as  we  proceed  in  the  char- 
acterization. 

£721 


PART  II 

Plays  and  Notes 


THE  GOLDEN  DOOM 


BY 

Lord  Dunsany 


Reprinted  from  Five  Plays  by  Lord  Dunsany 

through  the  courtesy  of 

Lord  Dunsany 

and 

Messrs.  Little,  Brown  and  Company,  Boston 


175] 


PERSONS 

THE  KING 

CHAMBERLAIN 

CHIEF  PROPHET 

GIRL 

BOY 

SPIES 

FIRST  PROPHET 

SECOND  PROPHET 

FIRST  SENTRY 

SECOND  SENTRY 

STRANGER 

ATTENDANTS 


Scene:  Outside  the  King's  great  door  in  Zericon. 
Time:  Some  while  before  the  fall  of  Babylon, 


Copyright,  1914,  by  Little,  Brown  and  Company. 

Permission  for  amateur  or  professional  performance  of  anv 
kind  must  be  secured  from  Stuart  Walker,  Carnegie  Hall, 
New  York. 


[76] 


THE  GOLDEN  DOOM 

Two  Sentries  pace  to  and  fro,  then  halt,  one  on 
each  side  of  the  great  door. 

First  Sentry.    The  day  is  deadly  sultry. 

Second  Sentry.  I  would  that  I  were  swimming 
down  the  Gyshon,  on  the  cool  side,  under  the  fruit 
trees. 

First  Sentry.  It  is  like  to  thunder  or  the  fall  of  a 
dynasty. 

Second  Sentry.  It  will  grow  cool  by  night-fall. 
Where  is  the  King? 

First  Sentry.  He  rows  in  his  golden  barge  with 
ambassadors  or  whispers  with  captains  concerning 
future  wars.    The  stars  spare  him! 

Second  Sentry.  Why  do  you  say  "  the  stars 
spare  him  "? 

First  Sentry.  Because  if  a  doom  from  the  stars 
fall  suddenly  on  a  king  it  swallows  up  his  people 
and  all  things  round  about  him,  and  his  palace 
falls  and  the  walls  of  his  city  and  citadel,  and  the 
apes  come  in  from  the  woods  and  the  large  beasts 
from  the  desert,  so  that  you  would  not  say  that  a 
king  had  been  there  at  all. 

Second  Sentry.  But  why  should  a  doom  from 
the  stars  fall  on  the  King? 

First  Sentry.    Because  he  seldom  placates  them. 

Second  Sentry.  Ah!  I  have  heard  that  said  of 
him. 

First  Sentry.  Who  are  the  stars  that  a  man 
[77] 


THE  GOLDEN  DOOM 

should  scorn  them?  Should  they  that  rule  the 
thunder,  the  plague  and  the  earthquake  withhold 
these  things  save  for  much  prayer?  Always  am- 
bassadors are  with  the  King,  and  his  commanders, 
come  in  from  distant  lands,  prefects  of  cities  and 
makers  of  the  laws,  but  never  the  priests  of  the  stars. 

Second  Sentry.    Hark!    Was  that  thunder? 

First  Sentry.    Believe  me,  the  stars  are  angry. 

[Enter  a  Stranger.  He  wanders  toward  the  King's 
door,  gazing  about  him.] 

Sentries  [lifting  their  spears  at  him].  Go  back! 
Go  back! 

Stranger.    Why?  l 

First  Sentry.    It  is  death  to  touch  the  King's  door. 

Stranger.     I  am  a  stranger  from  Thessaly. 

First  Sentry.    It  is  death  even  for  a  stranger. 

Stranger.    Your  door  is  strangely  sacred. 

First  Sentry.    It  is  death  to  touch  it. 

[The  Stranger  wanders  off.] 

[Enter  two  children  hand  in  hand.] 

Boy  [to  the  Sentry].  I  want  to  see  the  King  to 
pray  for  a  hoop.    [The  Sentry  smiles.] 

Boy  {pushes  the  door;  to  girl],  I  cannot  open  it. 
[To  the  Sentry]  Will  it  do  as  well  if  I  pray  to  the 
King's  door? 

Sentry.  Yes,  quite  as  well.  [Turns  to  talk  to 
the  other  Sentry.]    Is  there  anyone  in  sight? 

Second  Sentry  [shading  his  eyes].  Nothing  but 
a  dog,  and  he  far  out  on  the  plain. 

First  Sentry.  Then  we  can  talk  awhile  and  eat 
bash. 

Boy.  King's  door,  I  want  a  little  hoop.  [The 
[78] 


THE  GOLDEN  DOOM 

Sentries  take  a  little  bash  between  finger  and  thumb 
from  pouches  and  put  that  wholly  forgotten  drug  to 
their  lips,] 

Girl  [pointing].    My  father  is  a  taller  soldier  than 
that. 

Boy.    My  father  can  write.    He  taught  me. 

Girl.      Ho!      Writing    frightens    nobody.      My 
father  is  a  soldier. 

Boy.  I  have  a  lump  of  gold.    I  found  it  in  the 
stream  that  runs  down  to  Gyshon. 

Girl.    I  have  a  poem.    I  found  it  in  my  own  head. 

Boy.    Is  it  a  long  poem? 

Girl.    No.    But  it  would  have  been  only  there 
were  no  more  rhymes  for  sky. 

Boy.    What  is  your  poem? 

GirL        I  saw  a  purple  bird 

Go  up  against  the  sky 
And  it  went  up  and  up 
And  round  about  did  fly. 

Boy.    I  saw  it  die. 

Girl.    That  doesn't  scan. 

Boy.    Oh,  that  doesn't  matter. 

Girl.    Do  you  like  my  poem? 

Boy.    Birds  aren't  purple. 

Girl.    My  bird  was. 

Boy.    Oh! 

Girl.    Oh,  you  don't  like  my  poem! 

Boy.    Yes,  I  do. 

GirL    No,  you  don't;  you  think  it  horrid. 

Boy.    No.    I  don't. 

Girl.     Yes,  you  do.     Why  didn't  you  say  you 
liked  it?    It  is  the  only  poem  I  ever  made. 
[791 


THE  GOLDEN  DOOM 

Boy.    I  do  like  it.    I  do  like  it. 

Girl.    You  don't,  you  don't! 

Boy.  Don't  be  angry.  I'll  write  it  on  the  door 
for  you. 

Girl.    You'll  write  it? 

Boy.  Yes,  I  can  write  it.  My  father  taught  me. 
I'll  write  it  with  my  lump  of  gold.  It  makes  a 
yellow  mark  on  the  iron  door. 

Girl.  Oh,  do  write  it!  I  would  like  to  see  it 
written  like  real  poetry.  [The  Boy  begins  to  write. 
The  Girl  watches.] 

First  Sentry.  You  see,  we'll  be  fighting  again 
soon. 

Second  Sentry.  Only  a  little  war.  We  never 
have  more  than  a  little  war  with  the  hill-folk. 

First  Sentry.  When  a  man  goes  to  fight,  the 
curtains  of  the  gods  wax  thicker  than  ever  before 
between  his  eyes  and  the  future;  he  may  go  to  a 
great  or  to  a  little  war. 

Second  Sentry.  There  can  only  be  a  little  war 
with  the  hill-folk. 

First  Sentry.    Yet  sometimes  the  gods  laugh. 

Second  Sentry.    At  whom? 

First  Sentry.    At  kings. 

Second  Sentry.  Why  have  you  grown  uneasy 
about  this  war  in  the  hills? 

First  Sentry.  Because  the  King  is  powerful 
beyond  any  of  his  fathers,  and  has  more  fighting 
men,  more  horses,  and  wealth  that  could  have 
ransomed  his  father  and  his  grandfather  and  dow- 
ered their  queens  and  daughters;  and  every  year 
his  miners  bring  him  more  from  the  opal-mines 
[80] 


THE  GOLDEN  DOOM 

and  from  the  turquoise-quarries.     He  has  grown 
very  mighty. 

Second  Sentry.     Then  he  will  the  more  easily 
crush  the  hill-folk  in  a  little  war. 

First  Sentry.    When  kings  grow  very  mighty  the 
stars  grow  very  jealous. 

Boy.    I've  written  your  poem. 

Girl.    Oh,  have  you  really? 

Boy.    Yes,  I'll  read  it  to  you.    [He  reads.] 
I  saw  a  purple  bird 

Go  up  against  the  sky 
And  it  went  up  and  up 
And  round  about  did  fly. 
I  saw  it  die. 

Girl.    It  doesn't  scan. 

Boy.     That  doesn't  matter. 

[Enter  furtively  a  Spy,  who  crosses  stage  and  goes 
out.    The  Sentries  cease  to  talk.] 

Girl.    That  man  frightens  me. 

Boy.    He  is  only  one  of  the  King's  spies. 

Girl.    But  I  don't  like  the  King's  spies.     They 
frighten  me. 

Boy.    Come  on,  then,  we'll  run  away. 

Sentry  [noticing  the  children  again].     Go  away, 
go  away!     The  King  is  coming,  he  will  eat  you. 

[The  Boy  throws  a  stone  at  the  Sentry  and  runs 
out.  Enter  another  Spy,  who  crosses  the  stage. 
Enter  third  Spy,  who  notices  the  door.  He  exam- 
ines it  and  utters  an  owl-like  whistle.  No.  2  comes 
back.  They  do  not  speak.  Both  whistle.  No.  1 
comes.  All  examine  the  door.  Enter  the  King  and 
his  Chamberlain.  The  King  wears  a  purple  robe. 
[81] 


THE  CHILDREN  RUN  OUT 


THE  GOLDEN  DOOM 

The  Sentries  smartly  transfer  their  spears  to  their 
left  hands  and  return  their  right  arms  to  their  right 
sides.  They  then  lower  their  spears  until  their  points 
are  within  an  inch  of  the  ground,  at  the  same  time 
raising  their  right  hands  above  their  heads.  They 
stand  for  some  moments  thus.  Then  they  lower  their 
right  arms  to  their  right  sides,  at  the  same  time 
raising  their  spears.  In  the  next  motion  they  take 
their  spears  into  their  right  hands  and  lower  the  butts 
to  the  floor,  where  they  were  before,  the  spears  slant- 
ing  forward  a  little.  Both  Sentries  must  move  to- 
gether precisely.] 

First  Spy  [runs  forward  to  the  King  and  kneels, 
abasing  his  forehead  to  the  floor].  Something  has 
written  on  the  iron  door. 

Chamberlain.     On  the  iron  door! 

King.  Some  fool  has  done  it.  Who  has  been 
here  since  yesterday? 

First  Sentry  [shifts  his  hand  a  little  higher  on  his 
spear,  brings  the  spear  to  his  side  and  closes  his  heels 
all  in  one  motion;  he  then  takes  one  pace  backward 
with  his  right  foot;  then  he  kneels  on  his  right  knee; 
when  he  has  done  this  he  speaks,  but  not  before]. 
Nobody,  Majesty,  but  a  stranger  from  Thessaly. 

King.    Did  he  touch  the  iron  door? 

First  Sentry.  No,  Majesty;  he  tried  to,  but  we 
drove  him  away. 

King.    How  near  did  he  come? 

First  Sentry.    Nearly  to  our  spears,  Majesty. 

King.  What  was  his  motive  in  seeking  to  touch 
the  iron  door? 

First  Sentry.    I  do  not  know,  Majesty. 
[83] 


THE  GOLDEN  DOOM 

King.    Which  way  did  he  go? 

First  Sentry  [pointing  left].  That  way,  Majesty, 
an  hour  ago.  [The  King  whispers  with  one  of  his 
Spies,  who  stoops  and  examines  the  ground  and 
steals  away.     The  Sentry  rises.] 

King  [to  his  two  remaining  Spies].  What  does 
this  writing  say? 

A  Spy.    We  cannot  read,  Majesty. 

King.    A  good  spy  should  know  everything. 

Second  Spy.  We  watch,  Majesty,  and  we  search 
out,  Majesty.  We  read  shadows,  and  we  read 
footprints,  and  whispers  in  secret  places.  But  we 
do  not  read  writing. 

King  [to  the  Chamberlain].    See  what  it  is. 

Chamberlain  [goes  up  and  reads].  It  is  treason, 
Majesty. 

King.    Read  it. 

Chamberlain. 

I  saw  a  purple  bird 

Go  up  against  the  sky, 
And  it  went  up  and  up 
And  round  about  did  fly. 
I  saw  it  die. 

First  Sentry  [aside].    The  stars  have  spoken. 

King  [to  the  Sentry].  Has  anyone  been  here  but 
the  stranger  from  Thessaly? 

Sentry  [kneeling  as  before].     Nobody,  Majesty. 

King.    You  saw  nothing? 

First  Sentry.  Nothing  but  a  dog  far  out  upon 
the  plain  and  the  children  of  the  guard  at  play. 

King  [to  the  Second  Sentry].    And  you? 

Second  Sentry  [kneeling].    Nothing,  Majesty. 
[84] 


THE  GOLDEN  DOOM 

Chamberlain.     That  is  strange. 

King.    It  is  some  secret  warning. 

Chamberlain.    It  is  treason. 

King.    It  is  from  the  stars. 

Chamberlain.  No,  no,  Majesty.  Not  from  the 
stars,  not  from  the  stars.  Some  man  has  done  it. 
Yet  the  thing  should  be  interpreted.  Shall  I  send 
for  the  prophets  of  the  stars? 

[The  King  beckons  to  his  Spies.  They  run  up  to 
him.] 

King.  Find  me  some  prophet  of  the  stars. 
[Exeunt  Spies.]  I  fear  that  we  may  go  no  more 
my  chamberlain,  along  the  winding  ways  of  un- 
equalled Zericon,  nor  play  dahoori  with  the  golden 
balls.  I  have  thought  more  of  my  people  than  of 
the  stars  and  more  of  Zericon  than  of  windy 
Heaven. 

Chamberlain.  Believe  me,  Majesty,  some  idle 
man  has  written  it  and  passed  by.  Your  spies 
shall  find  him,  and  then  his  name  will  be  soon  for- 
gotten. 

King.  Yes,  yes.  Perhaps  you  are  right,  though 
the  sentries  saw  no  one.  No  doubt  some  beggar 
did  it. 

Chamberlain.  Yes,  Majesty,  some  beggar  has 
surely  done  it.  But  look,  here  come  two  prophets 
of  the  stars.    They  shall  tell  us  that  this  is  idle. 

[Enter  two  Prophets  and  a  Boy  attending  them. 
All  bow  deeply  to  the  King.  The  two  Spies  steal  in 
again  and  stand  at  back.] 

King.  Some  beggar  has  written  a  rhyme  on  the 
iron  gate,  and  as  the  ways  of  rhyme  are  known  to 
[85] 


THE  GOLDEN  DOOM 

you  I  desired  you,  rather  as  poets  than  as  prophets, 
to  say  whether  there  was  any  meaning  in  it. 

Chamberlain.     '  Tis  but  an  idle  rhyme. 

First  Prophet  [bows  again  and  goes  up  to  door.  He 
glances  at  the  writing].  Come  hither,  servant  of 
those  that  serve  the  stars.    [Attendant  approaches.] 

First  Prophet.  Bring  hither  our  golden  cloaks, 
for  this  may  be  a  matter  for  rejoicing;  and  bring 
our  green  cloaks  also,  for  this  may  tell  of  young 
new  beautiful  things  with  which  the  stars  will  one 
day  gladden  the  King;  and  bring  our  black  cloaks 
also,  for  it  may  be  a  doom.  [Exit  the  Boy;  the 
Prophet  goes  up  to  the  door  and  reads  solemnly.] 
The  stars  have  spoken.  [Reenter  Attendant  with 
cloaks.] 

King.  I  tell  you  that  some  beggar  has  written 
this. 

First  Prophet.  It  is  written  in  pure  gold.  [He 
dons  the  black  cloak  over  body  and  head.] 

King.  What  do  the  stars  mean?  What  warning 
is  it? 

First  Prophet.    I  cannot  say. 

King  [to  Second  Prophet].  Come  you  then  and 
tell  us  what  the  warning  is. 

Second  Prophet  [goes  up  to  the  door  and  reads]. 
The  stars  have  spoken.  [He  cloaks  himself  in 
black.] 

King.    What  is  it?    What  does  it  mean? 

Second  Prophet.  We  do  not  know,  but  it  is 
from  the  stars. 

Chamberlain.  It  is  a  harmless  thing;  there  is 
no  harm  in  it,  Majesty.  Why  should  not  birds  die? 
[86] 


THE  GOLDEN  DOOM 

King.  Why  have  the  prophets  covered  them- 
selves in  black? 

Chamberlain.  They  are  a  secret  people  and  look 
for  inner  meanings.    There  is  no  harm  in  it. 

King.    They  have  covered  themselves  in  black. 

Chamberlain.  They  have  not  spoken  of  any 
evil  thing.    They  have  not  spoken  of  it. 

King.  If  the  people  see  the  prophets  covered  in 
black  they  will  say  that  the  stars  are  against  me 
and  believe  that  my  luck  has  turned. 

Chamberlain.    The  people  must  not  know. 

King.  Some  prophet  must  interpret  to  us  the 
doom.   Let  the  chief  prophet  of  the  stars  be  sent  for. 

Chamberlain  [going  toward  left  exit].  Summon 
the  chief  prophet  of  the  stars  that  look  on  Zericon. 

Voices  off.  The  chief  prophet  of  the  .stars. 
The  chief  prophet  of  the  stars. 

Chamberlain.  I  have  summoned  the  chief 
prophet,  Majesty. 

King.  If  he  interpret  this  aright  I  will  put  a 
necklace  of  turquoises  round  his  neck  with  opals 
from  the  mines. 

Chamberlain.  He  will  not  fail.  He  is  a  very 
cunning  interpreter. 

King.  What  if  he  covers  himself  with  a  huge 
black  cloak  and  does  not  speak  and  goes  muttering 
away,  slowly  with  bended  head,  till  our  fear  spreads 
to  the  sentries  and  they  cry  aloud? 

Chamberlain.  This  is  no  doom  from  the  stars, 
but  some  idle  scribe  hath  written  it  in  his  insolence 
upon  the  iron  door,  wasting  his  hoard  of  gold. 

King.  Not  for  myself  I  have  a  fear  of  doom, 
T871 


THE   GOLDEN   DOOM 

not  for  myself;  but  I  inherited  a  rocky  land,  windy 
and  ill-nurtured,  and  nursed  it  to  prosperity  by 
years  of  peace  and  spread  its  boundaries  by  years  of 
war.  I  have  brought  up  harvests  out  of  barren  acres 
and  given  good  laws  unto  naughty  towns,  and  my 
people  are  happy,  and  lo,  the  stars  are  angry! 

Chamberlain.  It  is  not  the  stars,  it  is  not  the 
stars,  Majesty,  for  the  prophets  of  the  stars  have 
not  interpreted  it.  Indeed,  it  was  only  some  rev- 
eller wasting  his  gold.  [Meanwhile  enter  Chief 
Prophet  of  the  stars  that  look  on  Zericon.] 

King.  Chief  Prophet  of  the  Stars  that  look  on 
Zericon,  I  would  have  you  interpret  the  rhyme 
upon  yonder  door. 

Chief  Prophet  [goes  up  to  the  door  and  reads].  It 
is  from  the  stars. 

King.  Interpret  it  and  you  shall  have  great 
turquoises  round  your  neck,  with  opals  from  the 
mines  in  the  frozen  mountains. 

Chief  Prophet  [cloaks  himself  like  the  others  in  a 
great  black  cloak].  Who  should  wear  purple  in  the 
land  but  a  King,  or  who  go  up  against  the  sky  but 
he  who  has  troubled  the  stars  by  neglecting  their 
ancient  worship?  Such  a  one  has  gone  up  and  up 
increasing  power  and  wealth,  such  a  one  has  soared 
above  the  crowns  of  those  that  went  before  him, 
such  a  one  the  stars  have  doomed,  the  undying 
ones,  the  illustrious.     [A  pause.] 

King.     Who  wrote  it? 

Chief  Prophet.  It  is  pure  gold.  Some  god  has 
written  it. 

Chamberlain.    Some  god? 
[88] 


THE   GOLDEN  DOOM 

Chief  Prophet.  Some  god  whose  home  is  among 
the  undying  stars. 

First  Sentry  [aside  to  the  Second  Sentry],  Last 
night  I  saw  a  star  go  flaming  earthward. 

King.    Is  this  a  warning  or  is  it  a  doom? 

Chief  Prophet.    The  stars  have  spoken. 

King.    It  is,  then,  a  doom? 

Chief  Prophet.    They  speak  not  in  jest. 

King.  I  have  been  a  great  King — Let  it  be  said 
of  me  "  The  stars  overthrew  him,  and  they  sent 
a  god  for  his  doom."  For  I  have  not  met  my  equal 
among  kings  that  man  should  overthrow  me;  and 
I  have  not  oppressed  my  people  that  man  should 
rise  up  against  me. 

Chief  Prophet.  It  is  better  to  give  worship  to 
the  stars  than  to  do  good  to  man.  It  is  better  to 
be  humble  before  the  gods  than  proud  in  the  face 
of  your  enemy  though  he  do  evil. 

King.  Let  the  stars  hearken  yet  and  I  will  sacri- 
fice a  child  to  them — I  will  sacrifice  a  girl  child  to 
the  twinkling  stars  and  a  male  child  to  the  stars 
that  blink  not,  the  stars  of  the  steadfast  eyes.  [  To 
his  Spies]  Let  a  boy  and  girl  be  brought  for  sacri- 
fice. [Exit  a  Spy  to  the  right  looking  at  footprints.] 
Will  you  accept  this  sacrifice  to  the  god  that  the 
stars  have  sent?  They  say  that  the  gods  love  chil- 
dren. 

Chief  Prophet.  I  may  refuse  no  sacrifice  to  the 
stars  nor  to  the  gods  whom  they  send.  [To  the 
other  Prophets]  Make  ready  the  sacrificial  knives. 
[The  Prophets  draw  knives  and  sharpen  them.] 

King.  Is  it  fitting  that  the  sacrifice  take  place 
[89] 


THE  GOLDEN   DOOM 

by  the  iron  door  where  the  god  from  the  stars  has 
trod,  or  must  it  be  in  the  temple? 

Chief  Prophet.  Let  it  be  offered  by  the  iron 
door.  [To  the  other  Prophets]  Fetch  hither  the 
altar  stone. 

[The  owl-like  whistle  is  heard  off  right.  The 
Third  Spy  runs  crouching  toward  it.    Exit.] 

King.    Will  this  sacrifice  avail  to  avert  the  doom? 

Chief  Prophet.    Who  knows? 

King.    I  fear  that  even  yet  the  doom  will  fall. 

Chief  Prophet  It  were  wise  to  sacrifice  some 
greater  thing. 

King.    What  more  can  a  man  offer? 

Chief  Prophet.    His  pride. 

King.     What  pride? 

Chief  Prophet.  Your  pride  that  went  up  against 
the  sky  and  troubled  the  stars. 

King.    How  shall  I  sacrifice  my  pride  to  the  stars? 

Chief  Prophet.  It  is  upon  your  pride  that  the 
doom  will  fall,  and  will  take  away  your  crown  and 
will  take  away  your  kingdom. 

King.  I  will  sacrifice  my  crown  and  reign  un- 
crowned amongst  you,  so  only  I  save  my  kingdom. 

Chief  Prophet.  If  you  sacrifice  your  crown  which 
is  your  pride,  and  if  the  stars  accept  it,  perhaps  the 
god  that  they  sent  may  avert  the  doom  and  you 
may  still  reign  in  your  kingdom  though  humbled 
and   uncrowned. 

King.  Shall  I  burn  my  crown  with  spices  and 
with  incense  or  cast  it  into  the  sea? 

Chief  Prophet.  Let  it  be  laid  here  by  the  iron 
door  where  the  god  came  who  wrote  the  golden 
[90] 


THE  GOLDEN  DOOM 

doom.  When  he  comes  again  by  night  to  shrivel 
up  the  city  or  to  pour  an  enemy  in  through  the  iron 
door,  he  will  see  your  cast-off  pride  and  perhaps 
accept  it  and  take  it  away  to  the  neglected  stars. 

King  [to  the  Chamberlain].  Go  after  my  spies 
and  say  that  I  make  no  sacrifice.  [Exit  the  Cham- 
berlain to  the  right;  the  King  takes  off  his  crown.] 
Good-bye,  my  brittle  glory;  kings  have  sought  you; 
the  stars  have  envied  you.    [  The  stage  grows  darker.] 

Chief  Prophet.  Even  now  the  sun  has  set  who 
denies  the  stars,  and  the  day  is  departed  wherein 
no  gods  walk  abroad.  It  is  near  the  hour  when 
spirits  roam  the  earth  and  all  things  that  go  unseen, 
and  the  faces  of  the  abiding  stars  will  be  soon  re- 
vealed to  the  fields.  Lay  your  crown  there  and 
let  us  come  away. 

King  [lays  his  crown  before  the  iron  door;  then  to 
the  Sentries].  Go!  And  let  no  man  come  near  the 
door  all  night. 

The  Sentries  [kneeling].    Yes,  Majesty. 

[They  remain  kneeling  until  after  the  King  has 
gone.    King  and  the  Chief  Prophet  walk  away.] 

Chief  Prophet.  It  was  your  pride.  Let  it  be 
forgotten.  May  the  stars  accept  it.  [Exeunt  left.] 
[The  Sentries  rise.] 

First  Sentry.     The  stars  have  envied  him! 

Second  Sentry.  It  is  an  ancient  crown.  He 
wore  it  well. 

First  Sentry.    May  the  stars  accept  it. 

Second  Sentry.  If  they  do  not  accept  it  what 
doom  will  overtake  him? 

First  Sentry.  It  will  suddenly  be  as  though  there 
[91] 


THE  GOLDEN  DOOM 

were  never  any  city  of  Zericon  nor  two  sentries 
like  you  and  me  standing  before  the  door. 

Second  Sentry.    Why!    How  do  you  know? 

First  Sentry.    That  is  ever  the  way  of  the  gods. 

Second  Sentry.    But  it  is  unjust. 

First  Sentry.    How  should  the  gods  know  that? 

Second  Sentry.    Will  it  happen  to-night? 

First  Sentry.  Come!  we  must  march  away. 
[Exeunt  right.] 

[The  stage  grows  increasingly  darker.  Reenter 
the  Chamberlain  from  the  right.  He  walks  across 
the  Stage  and  goes  out  to  the  left.  Reenter  Spies 
from  the  right.  They  cross  the  stage}  which  is  now 
nearly  dark.] 

Boy  [enters  from  the  right,  dressed  in  white,  his 
hands  out  a  little,  crying]  King's  door,  King's  door, 
I  want  my  little  hoop.  [He  goes  up  to  the  King}s 
door.  When  he  sees  the  King's  crown  there,  he 
utters  a  satisfied]  O-oh!  [He  takes  it  up,  puts  it 
on  the  ground,  and,  beating  it  before  him  with  the 
scepter,  goes  out  by  the  way  that  he  entered.] 

[The  great  door  opens;  there  is  light  within;  a 
furtive  Spy  slips  out  and  sees  that  the  crow?i  is  gone. 
Another  Spy  slips  out.  Their  crouching  heads 
come  close  together.] 

First  Spy  [hoarse  whisper].    The  gods  have  come! 

[They  run  back  through  the  door  and  the  door  is 
closed.  It  opens  again  and  the  King  and  the  Cham- 
berlain come  through.] 

King.    The  stars  are  satisfied. 

CURTAIN 
[921 


TWO  CROOKS  AND  A  LADY 


BY 

Eugene  Pillot 


1The  author  acknowledges  his  indebtedness  to  a  short 
story,  Fibre,  by  Richard  Washburn  Child,  which  suggested 
the  play. 


Reprinted  by  the  courtesy  of  the  Author  and  of  Brentano's 
from  Volume  I  of  Plays  of  The  47  Workshop,  published  by 
Brentano's,  New  York. 


93 


CHARACTERS 

Miller The  Hawk 

Lucille His  accomplice 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane 

Miss  Jones Her  companion 

Police  Inspector 

Garrity A  policeman 


First  produced  by  The  47  Workshop,  Harvard  University, 
November  16,  17,  1917. 

Copyright,  1917,  by  Eugene  Pillot. 

Permission  for  amateur  or  professional  performances  of  any 
kind  must  be  obtained  from  The  47  Workshop.  Lower  Massa- 
chusetts Hall,  Harvard  University,  Cambridge,  Massachu- 
setts. 


[94] 


TWO  CROOKS  AND  A  LADY 

Scene:  Library  in  the  old  Fifth  Avenue  mansion 
of  Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  It  is  an  old-fashioned, 
thoroughly  substantial  room  and  an  ideal  setting 
for  Us  owner.  French  windows,  overlooking  Fifth 
Avenue  and  extending  to  the  floor,  are  in  the  middle 
of  the  rear  wall.  Bookcases  on  each  side  of  them 
extend  to  a  door  at  rear  right  and  to  a  writing  desk 
at  left  front.  There  is  a  chair  near  the  window,  one 
by  the  table,  and  one  by  the  desk.  Prominent  among 
the  usual  desk  fittings  must  be  a  small  gold  stamp 
box.  A  waste-paper  basket  stands  beside  the  desk, 
in  full  view  of  the  audience.  Several  porcelain 
vases  are  placed  about  the  room.  A  long  library 
table,  holding  two  brass  candlesticks,  is  at  right  front. 
Just  above  it,  on  the  right  wall,  a  large,  long  mirror 
hangs  so  that  it  reflects  the  opposite  side  of  the  room. 

Place:  New  York  City.  Time:  The  present. 
About  three  o'clock  on  a  rainy  afternoon. 

The  curtain  rises  on  an  empty  stage,  rather  dark 
because  of  the  rainy  day  and  the  drawn  curtains.  The 
French  window  in  the  rear  opens  cautiously  and  Mil- 
ler stealthily  slips  into  the  room.  He  is  a  tall,  hand- 
some man — the  usual  type  of  gentleman  crook  who 
has  emerged  from  the  bottom  of  his  nefarious  pro- 
fession. He  wears  a  dark  raincoat  and  a  soft  black 
hat,  pulled  down  a  little  over  his  eyes.  As  he  starts 
to  advance  into  the  room,  approaching  footsteps  are 
[95] 


Miller  Slips  into  the  Room 


AND  A  LADY 

heard  off  right.     Frightened,   he  slips  behind  the 
heavy  curtains  at  the  windows. 

Lucille  enters  from  the  door  at  right.  She  is  in 
the  conventional  white  apron  and  cap  of  a  well- 
groomed  parlor  maid.  She  stops  for  a  moment  to 
tidy  the  table,  glances  up  at  the  mirror,  and  starts 
to  make  a  slight  readjustment  of  her  cap.  Suddenly 
she  realizes  that  it  is  too  dark  for  her  to  see,  goes  to 
the  window,  and  quickly  pulls  back  the  curtains, 
flooding  the  room  with  light  and  revealing  Miller. 
The  moment  she  sees  Miller,  she  jumps  back  fright- 
ened. 

Lucille  [in  a  loud  voice].    Miller! 

Miller  [frightened,  he  comes  forward  cautiously]. 
Don't  shout! 

Lucille.     You  nearly  scared  the  life  out  of  me! 

Miller.  Don't  tell  it  to  the  whole  house.  [Glances 
toward  door.]    Lucille,  anybody  about? 

[Throughout  the  following  scene,  Lucille  and 
Miller  give  their  lines  quickly,  feverishly,  for  they 
fear  that  they  may  be  interrupted  at  any  moment.] 

Lucille.  Not  yet;  but  they  wheel  Mrs.  Simms- 
Vane  in  here  every  afternoon.  You're  not  safe 
here!    [Tries  to  hurry  him  to  the  window.] 

Miller  [catching  her  by  the  arm].  Quick!  Where 
does  she  keep  the  Thirty-three? 

Lucille  [carelessly,  as  she  jerks  her  arm  away]. 
Why  should  I  tell  you? 

Miller^     Goinef  to   hog  the   necklace   yourself 
steadof  divvying  up  yith  mejJiuh? 
effle.    No.  /  / 

iller.    tfhen  what's  the  matter  with  you? 
[97] 


TWO  CROOKS 


Lucille.     You've^Jeen  taking  iftat  Minnie  out 
again!  yS         yS    s^ 

Miller.    Naw\  I'm  oj^he^evel  with  you. 

Luctil&\scorhfully].   Jlun! 

Miller.     Didn't  I  say  we'd  get  married  soon's 
we  cop  the  necklace? 

Lucille 

Miller. 
ous  again 

Lucille, 
on  you! 

worth. 


said  that, 
aj^  craw? y  Jeal- 

verytjamg  staked 

Ax,  for  all  it's 
It'll  take  both  of  us  to  steal  the  Thirty- 
three. 

Lucille.    Miller,  it's  a  wonderful  necklace. 

Miller.    Worth  forty  thousand  dollars. 

Lucille.  Thirty-three  blue-white  diamonds. 
Wouldn't  think  an  old  dame  would  be  so  stuck 
on  it! 

Miller.  No  more  than  we  are.  [Nudges  her 
affectionately.]    Now,  where  does  she  keep  it? 

Lucille.    In  this  room! 

Miller.     This  room? 

Lucille.  Yes,  they  say  she  comes  in  here  to  look 
at  it;  but  no  one's  ever  seen  her  do  it! 

Miller.  Good  enough;  we'll  cop  it  this  very 
afternoon! 

Lucille.    How? 

Miller.    Listen,  this  is  the  dope. 

Lucille  [eagerly].    Uh-huh. 

Miller.  Servants  are  off  to-day,  '  cept  you,  the 
cook,  and  the  old  dame's  companion.  Cook's  way 
[98] 


AND  A  LADY 

down  in  the  kitchen — and  Fve  fixed  it  to  get  the 
companion  away. 

Lucille.    How? 

Miller.  Dennis  is  across  the  street — watching 
this  window. 

Lucille.     Why? 

Miller.  When  the  time's  ready,  I'll  signal 
him  with  this  handkerchief  and  right  off  the  phone 
here  will  ring.    You  answer  it. 

Lucille  [puzzled].    What's  the  game? 

Miller.  Dennis  is  going  to  send  a  fake  message 
— something  about  a  phony  check — that'll  get 
Miss  Jones  out  of  the  house.  Want  you  to  answer 
the  phone  so's  to  be  sure  it's  Dennis.  Then  call 
her,  understand? 

Lucille.    Yes! 
/""Miller.    After  lhat  it'll  be/plain  sailing. 
/    Lucille.     But/Dennis'll  want  some  of  the/ boot 
for  doing  thatp^  /  /  / 

Miller.  N/w,  I  promised  hin/a  tenner/if  he'd 
send  the  phpne  message  and  then  beat  jfe  to  the 
station  any  get  a  couple  of  tickets  for  us.  [Mur- 
rnur  of  vofces  from  off  right] 

LXucjyUeJ    Oh,  they're  coming  now.     Better  get 
away  in  a  hurry!    [Miller  runs  to  the  window.] 

Miller.    Don't  forget  to  answer  that  phone! 

Lucille.  I  won't!  They're  almost  here!  Hurry 
up  and  get  out! 

Miller.    No,  I'm  going  to  stay  right  here. 

Lucille.    But  they'll  see  you! 

Miller.     No,  they  won't.     I'll  slide  behind  this 
curtain.     [He  slips  behind  one  of  the  window  cur- 
[99] 


TWO  CROOKS 

tains,  which  remain  partly  open.  He  is  completely 
concealed.  Lucille  pretends  to  arrange  articles  on 
the  desk,  furtively  glancing  at  right  door.] 

From  right  enter  Miss  Jones,  pushing  an  invalid's 
chair  in  which  is  seated  Mrs.  Simms-Vane. 

[Miss  Jones,  the  paid  companion  of  Mrs.  Simms- 
Vane,  is  a  rather  dull,  systematic  English  woman, 
not  in  the  least  understanding  her  mistress,  but 
as  a  result  of  long  service,  obeying  her  to  the  let- 
ter. Mrs.  Simms-Vane,  a  hopeless  paralytic  for 
twenty  years,  cannot  move  her  chin  a  quarter  of 
an  inch  to  left  or  right.  Her  body  is  rigid;  her  cheeks 
are  webbed  with  the  fine  wrinkles  of  the  years;  her 
eyes  are  beautiful  with  patience;  and  her  mouth  is 
lovely  with  the  firmness  of  suffering.  Once  very 
beautiful,  she  is  now,  at  the  age  of  sixty,  as  inert  as  a 
faded  flower.  She  wears  a  rich  but  simple  dress  of 
black  silk  with  white  lace  at  the  throat.  Miss  Jones 
wheels  the  chair  to  left  center,  somewhat  to  rear, 
and  facing  the  table  and  the  mirror  on  the  right  wall. 
She  lifts  one  of  the  invalid's  hands  and  places  it  so 
that  it  rests  easily  on  the  arm  of  her  chair.  As  she 
goes  to  the  other  side  of  the  chair  and  arranges  the 
other  hand  in  a  similar  manner,  Miller,  with  his 
eye  on  Miss  Jones  and  watched  by  Lucille,  silently 
steps  from  behind  the  curtain,  glances  out  the  win- 
dow, gives  a  quick  wave  of  his  handkerchief — the 
signal  to  the  unseen  Dennis — and  slips  behind  the 
curtain  again  without  being  seen  by  either  Miss 
Jones  or  Mrs.  Simms-Vane.] 
[100] 


AND  A  LADY 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane  [as  Miss  Jones  starts  to  make 
a  slight  adjustment* of  the  old  lady's  head  against 
the  back  of  her  chair].  No,  to  the  right.  [Miss 
Jones  moves  the  head  slightly.]  Too  much.  More 
to  the  left.    [Miss  Jones  moves  the  head  again.] 

Miss  Jones.  May  I  ask  why  you  always  want 
your  head  faced  that  way? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane  [coolly  amused].  You  may 
ask. 

[Mrs.  Simms-Vane' s  tone  causes  Miss  Jones  to 
step  back  abashed,  and  she  does  not  venture  the  ques- 
tion. The  telephone  on  the  desk  rings.  Miss  Jones 
starts  toward  it;  but  Lucille  has  already  picked  it 
up.]  t 

Lucille.  I'll  answer  it,  Miss  Jones.  [Speaks 
into  the  telephone.]  Hello — Yes —  Yes!  [Glances 
in  direction  of  Miller.] — All  right,  I'll  call  her. 
[Turns  to  Miss  Jones.]    It's  for  you,  Miss  Jones. 

Miss  Jones.  Thank  you.  [Goes  to  telephone.] 
Hello— Yes— Oh,  is  that  so?— Very  well.  I'll 
be  right  down  to  see  about  it. — Thank  you.  Good- 
bye. [Hangs  up  the  receiver  and  goes  to  Mrs. 
Simms-Vane.]  Mrs.  Simms-Vane,  that  was  the 
Empire  National  Bank  on  the  phone. 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.    Yes? 

Miss  Jones.  The  cashier  has  discovered  what 
appears  to  be  an  alteration  in  a  check  you  gave 
Andrews,  the  grocer.  They  asked  me  to  go  im- 
mediately to  their  down-town  offices;  and  I  told 
them  I  would. 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.     Very  well. 

Miss  Jones  [to  Lucille].  You  will  remain  here 
[101] 


TWO  CROOKS 

with  Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  There  will  be  nothing  to 
do  for  her.  [Goes  to  the  door  at  right  where  she  turns 
and  says  to  Lucille]  Even  though  it  is  raining, 
she  will  take  her  daily  ride  at  four  as  usual.  By 
that  time,  probably,  I  shall  return. 

Lucille  [with  a  superior  air].  Very  good,  Miss 
Jones. 

[Exit  Miss  Jones.  A  moment's  silence,  then  an 
outside  door  closes.  Miller  steps  out  from  behind 
the  curtain  and  beckons  for  Lucille  to  come  to  him. 
She  does  so  and  together  they  step  out  into  the  room 
and  look  threateningly  at  Mrs.  Simms-Vane  for  a 
moment.  They  are  now  in  her  range  of  vision  and 
she  stares  at  them  without  the  flicker  of  an  eyelash.] 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane  [calmly].  Lucille,  who  is  this 
gentleman?  [Lucille  fidgets.]  Why  is  he  here? 
[Lucille  becomes  more  nervous.] 

Miller  [brushing  past  Lucille],    I'll  do  the  talking! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  I  fear,  Lucille,  that  I  have 
been  mistaken  in  you. 

Miller  [to  Mrs.  Simms-Va?ie].  Now,  there'll 
be  no  nonsense! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.     I  think  I  understand. 

Miller.    Better  for  you,  if  you  do! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Sir,  will  you  kindly  step 
forward  three  or  four  steps? 

Miller.    What  for? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  I  am  unable,  because  of 
my  infirmity,  to  turn  my  head;  and  I  prefer  to  talk 
looking  into  the  eyes. 

Miller  [stepping  in  front  of  Mrs.  Simms-Vane]. 
We'll  not  have  much  talk.  [Quickly,  to  Lucille] 
[102] 


AND  A  LADY 

You  mind  that  door.  [Points  to  door,  which  Lucille 
closes  as  Miller  goes  to  the  telephone  and  cuts  its 
green  cord.  Resuming  his  position  in  front  of  Mrs. 
Simms-Vane]  Now,  Mrs.  Simms-Vane,  I'll  tell 
you  why  I'm  here. 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.    Yes? 

Miller.  I  come  for  the  Thirty-three,  and  you're 
going  to  tell  me  where  it  is. 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane  [slight  surprise].  So  you  call 
it  the  Thirty-three? 

Miller.  Needn't  pretend  you  don't  understand 
what  I'm  talking  about.  I  ain't  got  much  time. 
Now,  where  is  it?  [Points  a  menacing  finger  at 
Mrs.  Simms-Vane' s  face.  She  merely  smiles  and 
looks  at  him  without  making  the  slightest  move- 
ment.] 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane  [firmly,  but  softly].  Sir,  you 
have  made  a  mistake  to  come  here. 

Miller.    Mistake?    Hal    [Halfway  laughs.] 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  It  is  true  that  I  am  a  help- 
less invalid  and  cannot  call  for  assistance;  but  there 
is  that  which  will  cause  you  to  fail.  You  shall  have 
a  disaster. 

Lucille  [as  she  comes  to  Miller,  frightened].  Oh, 
Miller,  what  does  she  mean? 

Miller  [ignores  Lucille.  Speaks  sneeringly  to 
Mrs.  Simms-Vane].  You  mean  you'll  call  on  God? 
Well,  my  nerve's  good  for  that  stuff. 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane  [referring  to  Lucille].  Hers 
is  not.  [Miller  turns  and  looks  at  Lucille,  who  has 
become  very  nervous.] 

Lucille.    It's  a  lie!    The  old  fossil! 
[103] 


TWO  CROOKS 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane  [a  little,  slow  smile  passes 
over  her  face  as  she  continues  in  her  calm  voice]. 
Nevertheless,  I  do  not  refer  to  divine  assistance. 

Miller.    Then,  what  do  you  mean? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  I  think  you  will  fail,  because 
you  are  not  made  of  the  material  that  succeeds. 
You  are  both  of  the  base  metals — unrestrained, 
passionate,  and  vulgar. 

Lucille  [her  vanity  is  hurt].    The  idea! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Yes,  and  that  is  why  you 
made  a  mistake  to  come  into  conflict  with  me. 

Miller.    Bah! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  At  the  very  outset,  sir, 
you  made  a  mistake. 

Miller.    Mistake — what  mistake? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Almost  your  first  words 
disclosed  the  fact  that  you  did  not  know  where  the 
necklace  is  laid  away. 

Miller.  You're  not  very  clever  yourself.  You've 
just  as  well  as  admitted  the  Thirty-three's  in  this 
room. 

[Jerks  off  his  raincoat,  throws  it  on  the  floor,  and 
starts  to  search  for  the  Thirty-three  among  the  papers 
in  the  writing-desk  drawers.  Lucille  still  keeps 
guard  at  the  door.  Mrs.  Simms-Vane,  unable  to 
turn  her  head,  stares  ahead  at  nothing.] 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane  [after  a  pause,  in  her  same 
calm  voice].  Will  you  trust  in  one  who  has  never 
broken  her  word  to  anyone? 

Miller  [stops  suddenly  and  looks  at  Mrs.  Simms- 
Vane].    What  are  you  trying  to  get  at? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Suppose  I  promise  to  re- 
[104] 


AND  A  LADY 

ward  you  [Lucille  starts  forward  jealously]  both  to 
the  full?    [Lucille  sinks  back  relieved.] 

Miller.    What  are  you  giving  us? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  The  necklace  is  my  most 
treasured  possession,  not  because  of  its  money 
value,  but  because  my  dear,  dead  husband  gave  it 
to  me  when  we  were  young  and  very  happy.  [Lu- 
cille turns  away,  sickened  by  this  expression  of  sen- 
timent.] 

Miller.    What's  that  got  to  do  with  us? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  That  is  why  I  will  not  have 
it  taken  from  me. 

Lucille.    Listen  to  her! 

Miller  [coarse  laugh].    Ha! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Then  look  out  for  your- 
selves.   I  warn  you. 

[Miller  walks  back  until  he  stands  in  front  of 
Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Suddenly  he  takes  a  pistol 
from  his  pocket  and  thrusts  the  muzzle  of  it  into  her 
face.] 

Miller  [growling].  Where's  the  thing  hid?  [Mrs. 
Simms-Vane  slowly  closes  her  eyes  and  slowly  opens 
them  again.  He  pushes  the  revolver  nearer  her.] 
Where's  it  hid? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Do  you  think  I  fear  that 
you  will  pull  that  trigger? 

Miller.    Why  wouldn't  I? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Can  you  not  see  how  beau- 
tiful that  would  be  for  me — a  hopeless  invalid? 

Miller  [not  understanding].    Huh? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.    But  it  is  too  much  to  hope. 
You  would  not  shoot  me. 
[105] 


TWO  CROOKS 

Miller.    I'll  soon  show  you! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Ah,  no,  that  would  make 
a  noise. 

Miller  [impatiently].    What  if  it  did? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Then  you  could  not  con- 
tinue your  search.  No,  I  cannot  hope  that  you 
will  pull  that  trigger. 

Miller  [realizing  the  truth  of  her  words,  drops  the 
pistol  to  his  side].    You're  a  tough  old  nut. 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Thank  you,  sir.  That  is 
very  kind. 

Miller.  Bah!  [Then  to  Lucille]  Pull  out  the 
books,  girlie.    We've  got  to  frisk  the  whole  room. 

Lucille  [coming  forward].     All  right! 

Miller.  Go  through  it  systematic  and  fast; 
and  look  in  the  vases! 

Lucille.  Yes,  yes!  [Begins  to  execute  his  com- 
mands.] 

Miller.  Remember,  she  said  it  was  "  laid  away  " 
— that's  the  cue. 

Lucille.    Uh-huh. 

[Miller  returns  to  the  desk,  tosses  papers  and 
boxes  to  the  floor,  opens  the  stamp  box  on  the  desk, 
finds  a  locked  drawer,  and  feverishly  splinters  it 
open.  Lucille  is  hastily  pulling  out  the  books  from 
the  shelves  and  searching  the  wall  behind  them  for 
any  secret  hiding  place  of  the  necklace.  The  room 
is  in  a  welter  of  disorder.  Finally,  Miller  returns  to 
his  revolver  which  he  left  on  the  table  as  he  made  his 
rounds  of  the  room,  stares  down  at  it,  and  bites  his  lip.] 

Miller  [growling].  Time  wasted!  [Looks  at 
Mrs.  Simms-Vane  and  takes  a  pair  of  steel  pliers 
[106] 


AND  A  LADY 

from  his  side  pocket,  opens  them,  and  looks  down 
at  them.]  It's  rough  work;  but  it's  got  to  be  done. 
[Goes  to  Mrs.  Simms-Vane  and  closes  his  hand 
over  one  of  her  white  wrists.  Her  fingers  move  a  little.] 
Huh!  There's  some  feeling  in  this  hand.  I  thought 
so.  [  He  slips  the  toothed  jaws  of  the  pliers  between 
the  thumb  and  forefinger  down  upon  the  soft  flesh 
in  the  crotch  of  her  thumb  and  closes  the  pliers  upon 
it.]  Now,  where's  the  necklace?  [Mrs.  Simms- 
Vane  silently  stares  at  him.]  Better  tell.  [She 
merely  closes  her  eyes.]  You  better  tell!  [Lucille 
shudders  as  she  sees  that  he  is  squeezing  the  pliers 
in  his  tightening  grip.]  Curse  you!  Out  with  it! 
Where's  the  necklace? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  That  is  painful;  but  I  do 
not  think  pain  will  ever  be  my  master.  I  shall 
not  tell  you. 

Lucille.  Stop!  Stop,  Miller!  The  blood's 
coming! 

Miller.    Let  it  come. 

Lucille.  But  she  won't  tell!  Oh,  you're  crushing 
the  flesh!    Stop!    [Starts  to  pull  him  away.] 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane  [opening  her  eyes].  Ah,  she's 
weakened!  I  said  you  were  both  made  of  inferior 
stuff.  This  French  doll  of  yours,  sir,  was  willing 
to  see  you  torture  an  old  lady  who  cannot  move 
and  yet  a  few  drops  of  red  blood  make  her  cry 
out.  What  a  pair  you  are — all  boastfulness;  but 
your  nerves  are  made  of  shoddy.  [Miller  drops 
the  pliers  in  his  pocket,  looks  at  Lucille,  and  sneers.] 

Lucille  [to  Miller].  Don't!  Don't  look  at  me 
like  that! 

[1071 


TTZ  ^ 


TWO   CROOKS 

Miller.  Why  not?  The  old  dame's  right  about 
lOB.     [Outside,  a  clock  strikes  three  o'clock.] 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane  [fretfully].  It's  three.  I 
ordered  my  hot  milk  for  three. 

Miller  [wheeling  toward  Lucille].  The  cook'll 
bring  it  in? 

Lucille  [sullenly].     Perhaps. 

Miller.  Quick,  then!  Go  to  the  kitchen.  Say 
she  sent  you  for  it.  I'll  take  another  look  round 
the  room.  [Lucille  shrugs  her  shoulders  and  exits. 
Miller  starts  to  search  in  the  desk  drawers  again.] 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane  [sees  him  in  the  mirror]. 
Young  man,  I  see  you're  searching  in  those  drawers 
again.    I  would  not  waste  my  time  doing  that. 

Miller  [startled].    Why  not? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Perhaps  I  will  tell  you 
what  you  wish  to  know. 

Miller.    What? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Come  and  stand  in  front 
of  me. 

Miller  [he  does  so,  staring  at  her].    Well? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  You  may  be  surprised,  sir, 
to  hear  that  I  cannot  help  admiring  the  boldness 
you  have  shown  in  coming  here. 

Miller.    Aw,  what  are  you  giving  me  now? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  I  have  always  been  at- 
tracted by  ability,  wherever  it  showed  itself  and — 

Miller  [with  contempt].    Words,  words. 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.    No-o,  but  you  are  a  hand- 
some young  man,  and  it  is  a  pity  that  your  mag- 
netism and  power  should  be  thrown  away  on  such 
a  worthless  young  woman  as  Lucille. 
[108] 


AND  A  LADY 

Miller.    Aw,  Lucille's  all  right. 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.    Pah!    You  saw  her  cringe! 

Miller.    Well? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  A  pretty  face — that's  all 
she  is.  And  you  are  infatuated  with  her — you 
who  could  win  women  far  above  her  class.  She 
stands  in  your  way.  This  very  occasion  is  an 
example  of  it. 

Miller.    What  are  you  driving  at? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  In  the  next  fifteen  minutes 
she  may  cost  you  forty  thousand  dollars. 

Miller  [leaning  nearer].    How's  it  figured? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  I  don't  trust  her;  but  I 
could — trade  with  you. 

Miller.     Trade? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Did  it  not  occur  to  you, 
sir,  that  forty  thousand  dollars  is  very  little  to 
me?  If  I  spent  it,  it  would  be  charged  to  my 
heirs. 

Miller.  What's  that  got  to  do  with  the  Thirty^ 
Wee?  ,  i - 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  I  would  willingly  send  you 
a  check  for  the  amount,  if  you  would  go  away. 

Miller  [scornfully].     Huh! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  But  it  is  too  much  to  ask 
you  to  take  my  word  for  that.  However,  I  could 
take  yours. 

Miller  [eagerly].     Yes? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  But  not  if  Lucille  were 
involved. 

Miller.    Why  not? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  I  love  those  stones  the 
11091 


TWO  CROOKS 

most  of  all  material  things — and  I  would  not  trust 
them  to  her. 

Miller  [glances  toward  door,  then  leans  nearer 
to  her,  alert].    How's  that  again?    Talk  faster. 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  I  cannot.  I  meant  that  if 
I  could  trust  you — you  alone — with  the  neck- 
lace until  I  could  arrange  to  buy  it  back  from  you,  I 
would  pay  you  more  for  it  than  its  appraised  value. 

Miller.    How  much  more? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.    Twenty-five  per  cent  more. 

Miller.    I'll  do  it!    Where's  the  necklace? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.    But  I  fear  the  girl. 

Miller  [discounting  her].    Oh,  that  girl? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Yes,  you  love  her;  and  a 
man  in  love  is  not  to  be  trusted. 

Miller.    Aw,  she's  not  the  only  girl  I  got. 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  O-oh — and  still  I've  no 
doubt  you  have  even  agreed  to  share  your  gains 
with  her. 

Miller.     Well? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  It  is  that  which  has  invited 
my  contempt. 

Miller.  I  never  promised  her  a  split.  Besides, 
I  know  you're  right  about  Lucille. 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Then  twenty  thousand 
dollars  is  a  high  price  to  pay  for  this  cheap  little 
creature's  favor. 

Miller.  Don't  have  to  pay  it — unless  she  knows 
I've  got  the  sparklers. 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.    Would  you  then? 

Miller.  Yes,  she's  a  little  wildcat,  and  she'd 
squeal  on  me. 

[110] 


AND  A  LADY 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Then  you  mean  that  you 
would  not  reveal  to  her  that  you  have  the  neck- 
lace? 

Miller.     Sure. 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  You  mean  that  you  would 
give  me  the  chance  to  purchase  back  the  diamonds 
from  you? 

Miller.    Yes. 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  You  mean  that  you  would 
promise  to  take  nothing  else  from  this  house? 

Miller.    What  else  is  there? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  There  is  a  stamp  box  on 
the  writing  desk.  You  opened  it.  I  heard  its 
click. 

Miller.    What  of  it? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.     It  is  made  of  solid  gold. 

Miller  [surprised  that  he  should  have  missed  such 
a  valuable  article,  picks  it  up  and  stares  at  it].  Gold? 
That  made  of  gold? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.    Yes. 

[Thinking  Mrs.  Simms-Vane  cannot  see  him, 
he  starts  to  pocket  the  stamp  box.  She  sees  his  move- 
ment reflected  in  the  mirror  and  gives  a  low  chuckle 
of  satisfaction.  He  is  startled,  not  quite  sure  whether 
she  saw  his  action  or  not.  Quickly,  but  reluctantly, 
he  puts  the  stamp  box  on  the  desk.] 

Miller  [in  an  over-generous  tone].  Well,  what 
of  it?  I'd  play  straight;  but  how  do  I  know  that 
you— 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  You  would  have  the  word 
of  Justinia  Simms-Vane.  Her  honor  has  never  been 
questioned.    It  would  last  as  long  as  your  own. 

[mi 


TWO  CROOKS 

Miller  [stares  at  her  a  moment],  Fm  no  fool. 
Lucille's  not  worth  the  fuss.    Where's  the  necklace? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Come  near  me.  [He  does 
so.]    Open  the  buttons  of  my  dress. 

Miller  [accusingly].  But  you  said  it  was  "  laid 
away." 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  I  chose  my  words  care- 
fully.   Open  my  dress. 

Miller  [opens  her  dress  and  sees  the  necklace 
round  her  throat],  Judas  Garryowen!  She  wears 
them!    What  stones!    What  stones! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Take  it  quickly.  [He  does 
so  and  at  once  begins  to  pick  the  stones  from  their 
settings.]    What  are  you  doing? 

Miller.    Aw —    [He  is  too  busy  to  explain.] 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.    I  say,  what  are  you  doing? 

Miller.  Picking  the  stones  from  their  set- 
tings. 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.     But  I  don't  understand — 

Miller  [picks  out  remaining  stones].  Just  a 
way  we  have.      [Drops  chain  into  wastebasket.] 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.     What  was  that  noise? 

Miller.  Chain  going  into  the  basket.  I  take 
no  chances. 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  But  you  will  do  me  the  favor 
to  button  my  dress.     Lucille — 

Miller.  Yes,  yes;  but  look  at  them!  [Gloats 
over  diamonds.]  Thirty-three  perfect  ones!  A-ah, 
what  a  handful!    Look!    [Holds  them  before  her.] 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  They  are  pretty;  but  my 
dress — 

Miller.     All  right.     [Drops  stones  in  his  right 

[112] 


AND  A  LADY 

pocket,  fastens  her  dress,  and  starts  to  adjust  her 
lace  collar.] 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.     I  hear  Lucille  bringing — 

Miller.    How  you  going  to  put  her  off  the  scent? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Leave  that  to  me.  If  you 
are  the  gentleman  I  think  you  are,  you  will  have 
her  give  me  the  milk. 

Miller.    Well;  but  how  will  you  fix  her? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.    Just  continue  your  search. 

Miller.    But  I've  finished  this  room! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Then  try  the  next;  but  leave 
the  girl  to  me. 

Miller  [takes  out  the  diamonds,  looks  at  them  a 
moment].  All  right.  [Walks  away.]  But  don't 
you  play  any  tricks  on  me. 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Sir,  that  will  depend  upon 
you. 

[He  misses  her  inference  and  starts  going  through 
the  drawers  again.  Suddenly,  Mrs.  Simms-Vane 
hears  him  stop.  Reflected  in  the  mirror  on  the  wall 
before  her  she  sees  him  reach  for  the  gold  stamp  box 
on  the  desk,  slowly  grasp  it,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 
She  sighs  and  closes  her  eyes.  Lucille  appears  in 
the  doorway,  carrying  a  tray  which  holds  a  tall  glass 
of  hot  milk.] 

Miller  [seeing  Lucille].    You  got  the  milk,  huh? 

Lucille.  Yes,  but  the  cook  wanted  to  bring  it  in 
herself. 

Miller.  Well,  I've  frisked  the  room  all  over 
again. 

Lucille.    What'd  you  find? 

Miller.    No  luck.    The  old  lady's  done  us. 
[113] 


TWO  CROOKS 

Lucille.  Look  some  more.  We  got  lots  more 
time. 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.    I  want  my  hot  milk. 

Lucille.     Forget   it!      [Sets   tray   on   the   table.] 

Miller  [over-generous].     No,  give  her  the  milk. 

Lucille  [surprised}.    What's  come  over  you? 

Miller.  Come  here.  [Lucille  does  so.  Half 
whisper]  Listen,  give  her  the  milk  and  keep  her 
busy.    Do  anything. 

Lucille.     What  for? 

Miller.  I  want  to  see  if  there's  anything  worth 
picking  up  in  the  other  rooms. 

Lucille.    But—? 

Miller.    Go  on;  give  her  the  milk. 

[Astounded,  Lucille  stares  at  him;  but  she  takes 
the  milk  to  Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Miller  wanders 
through  the  door  into  the  adjoining  room.  Again 
and  again  his  shadow  appears  near  the  doorway, 
as  though  he  were  watching  the  women.] 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  You  forget,  my  dear,  that 
I  oannot  move.  Put  the  glass  to  my  lips.  [Lu- 
cille does  so.]  A  little  nearer.  [Lucille  puts  the 
glass  nearer  Mrs.  Simms-Vane1  s  lips.]  The  other 
side.  [Peeved,  Lucille  glances  at  her;  but  moves 
the  glass  to  the  other  side  of  Mrs.  Simms-VaneJs 
mouth.]  What's  that?  Dirt?  Is  that  dirt  in  my 
milk?  [Impatiently,  Lucille  looks  at  the  milk. 
Whispering]  Do  not  show  any  surprise,  Lucille. 
Keep  looking  at  the  milk. 

Lucille  [whispering].    Yes. 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane  [whispering].  He  has  the 
necklace! 

[114] 


AND  A  LADY 

Lucille  [whispering].    Oh! 

Mrs.  Simxns-Vane  [whispering].  If  you  show 
him  that  you  know,  he  will  kill  you.  Don't  move! 
[Loudly]    Is  it  dirt  in  my  milk?    Look  again. 

Lucille.  I'm  trying  to  see.  [Whispering]  You're 
trying  to  make  a  fool  of  me! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane  [whispering].  No,  but  he  has 
tricked  you  and  means  to  leave  you  to  your  fate. 
He  has  the  diamonds! 

Lucille   [whispering].     Oh! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane  [whispering].  The  necklace 
without  the  stones  is  in  the  wastebasket.  The 
revolver — is  on  the  table. 

Lucille  [in  hushed  voice,  as  Miller  enters].     Oh. 

Miller  [seeing  Lucille' 's  suspicious  attitude,  turns 
to  Mrs.  Simms-Vane],  What  are  you  trying  to  do — 
cut  Lucille  off  from  me?    [Lucille  looks  away.] 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane  [significantly].  Did  you  find 
it — what  you  came  for? 

Miller  [hesitates,  then  sullenly].  No.  [Starts 
to  look  in  the  bookcases,  Lucille  sets  glass  on  the 
table,  runs  to  the  wastebasket,  looks  in," and  utters 
a  cry  of  rage.    Miller  turns  swiftly.] 

Lucille.  You've  got  it,  you  dog!  [Both  rush  for 
the  revolver.    She  gets  it]    Stand  back  now! 

Miller.    But  Lucille — 

Lucille.  You  double-crossed  me — after  I  loved 
you  so! 

Miller.  Listen,  girlie,  the  old  lady's  framed  us. 
I  love  you,  girlie.  You  know  me.  You  get  your 
share!  This  was  the  only  way  I  could  get  the  neck- 
lace!   It  was  all  for  you! 

[115] 


TWO  CROOKS 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Oh,  Lucille,  you  little  fool! 
The  other  woman  is  the  one! 

Lucille.    I  thought  so!    I'm  going  to  kill  you! 

Miller  [desperately],    I  love  you! 

Lucille.  Oh!  [Pained,  she  closes  her  eyes.  Mil- 
ler seizes  a  brass  candlestick  from  the  table  and  hurls 
it  blindly  at  her,  striking  the  wall  behind  her.]  Ygtt 
dog!  [She  shoots.  He  falls  to  the  floor.]  Oh,  what 
"Toave  I  done?  What  have  I  done?  [Covers  her  face. 
^  Outside  a  policeman's  whistle  is~bTown  twice.  Lucille 
is  still  too  horrified  by  her  crime  to  hear  it;  but  Mrs. 
Simms-  Vane  smiles  knowingly  and  closes  her  eyes.] 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  I  said  it  would  be  disaster 
for  him  to  cross  me.  He  broke  his  agreement  with 
me.  He  did  not  know  that  I  could  see  him  in  the 
mirror  over  the  table  when  he  took  the  little  stamp 
box.     [Outside  the  police  whistle  again.] 

Lucille  [hears  whistle].    O-oh,  the  police! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  And  now,  you  are  a  mur- 
deress. 

Lucille  [running  to  her].  No!  No!  Please  save 
me! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  I  wonder  if  you  are  really 
bad.  I  doubt  it.  You  are  too  young  to  be  put  in 
jail. 

Lucille.    You  will  save  me? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  I  shall  tell  a  little  white  lie 
for  you,  if  you  deserve  it. 

Lucille  [piteous  fright].  Oh,  if  you  only  would! 
[Off  right  the  doorbell  rings.  Lucille  becomes  more 
frightened  and  glances  apprehensively  toward  the 
door.] 

[116] 


AND  A  LADY 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  I  shall  say  you  shot  him  in 
defending  me.  But  we  must  hurry!  That  may  be 
the  police  ringing  now. 

Lucille.     Oh! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Put  the  revolver  in  my  lap. 
[Lucille  does  so.] 

Lucille.    Oh,  I  don't  deserve  to  be  saved! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Never  mind.  Go  put  your 
hand  in  the  young  man's  coat  pocket. 

Lucille.     Oh,  no!  I'm  afraid  to  touch  him! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.    Do  as  I  say. 

[Reluctantly,  Lucille  goes  to  Miller.  She  starts 
to  reach  for  his  pocket,  shudders,  and  recoils  from 
himJ 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  The  right  side.  [Lucille 
is  startled  that  Mrs.  Simms-Vane  should  know  the 
correct  pocket;  but  she  quickly  thrusts  her  hand  into 
it]    Do  you  feel  the  diamonds? 

Lucille  [gloating].  Yes;  here  they  are.  [As 
she  lifts  the  stones  from  Miller's  pocket,  she  pauses, 
swiftly  putting  back  a  stray  wisp  of  hair  over  her 
right  ear.] 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Are  you  sure  you  have  all 
of  them? 

Lucille.    Yes! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  You  did  not  leave  a  single 
one? 

Lucille  [overconfident].    No,  I'm  sure! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Then  count  each  one  and 
drop  it  into  my  hand. 

[Lucille  is  startled,  and  fears  that  she  has  been 
trapped,  but  quickly  recovers  her  composure.] 
[117] 


TWO  CROOKS 

Lucille  [counting  the  diamonds  into  Mrs.  Simms- 
Vane' s  hand — the  one  that  was  not  tortured  by  Miller]. 
One,  two,  three — how  wonderful  they  are!  [In- 
sistent ringing  of  the  doorbell  causes  her  to  hasten 
her  counting.]  Four,  five,  six —  [She  quickly  con- 
tinues to  count  toward  thirty.] 

[The  doorbell  has  ceased  ringing.  An  outside 
door  opens  and  closes.  A  growing  murmur  of  voices. 
A  man  exclaims ,  "  But  we  heard  a  shot  fired! " 
A  woman  replies,  "  But  it  couldn't  have  been  here!  " 
The  man,  "  We'll  have  a  look  anyway."] 

Lucille  [still  counting].  Thirty,  thirty-one, 
thirty-two  [a  pause  of  surprise],  thirty-three! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane  [suspiciously].    Thirty-tfoeef 

Lucille  [bewildered,  but  relieved].  Yes,  thirty- 
three. 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Then  I  have  the  stones  my 
husband  gave  me, — all  back  again? 

Lucille.    All. 

From  right  enter  Miss  Jones,  in  hat  and  raincoat, 
followed  by  Police  Inspector. 

Miss  Jones  [to  Inspector].  I'll  prove  to  you  there 
was  nothing —  [Seeing  Mrs.  Simms-Vane,  rushes 
to  her.]    Oh,  Mrs.  Simms-Vane,  are  you  all  right? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.    Yes. 

Miss  Jones.    Nothing  has  happened? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.    No — everything. 

Policeman  Garrity  appears  in  the  doorway. 

Garrity  [to  Miss  Jones,  as  he  appears].  Old  lady 
safe? 

[118] 


AND  A  LADY 

[Miller  stirs  feebly.    Miss  Jones  sees  him.] 

Miss  Jones.  Yes,  but,  Inspector  [points  to 
Miller],  look! 

Miller  [feebly].    Hello,  Inspector. 

Inspector  [to  Garrity].  Miller,  the  Hawk!  [To 
Mrs.  Simms-Vane]  Excuse  me,  ma'am,  but  who 
shot  this  man? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.     The  maid. 

Lucille.    I  was  defending  her! 

Miller.  That's  a  lie!  The  little  cat  was  the 
"  inside  "  on  this  job.  We  messed  it  up,  and  she 
shot  me.    She  thought  I  double-crossed  her. 

Lucille.  Oh,  how  he  talks!  I  never  saw  that  man 
before  in  all  my  life!    Did  I,  Mrs.  Simms-Vane? 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  My  dear  young  woman, 
I  tried  to  give  you  a  chance.  Now  I  advise  the 
officers  to  arrest  you.     You  were  his  accomplice. 

Lucille.    But  you  said — you  promised — 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Certainly.  But  in  my  neck- 
lace there  were  not  the  number  of  stones  you 
counted  out  to  me.    You  kept  one. 

Lucille.    No!    No! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Yes,  you  did.  The  neck- 
lace was  given  to  me  by  my  husband  on  my  thirty- 
fourth,  not  my  thirty-third,  birthday.  You  thought 
I  did  not  know  the  number  of  my  own  stones;  so 
you  kept  one. 

Miller.  Ha!  That  serves  the  little  devil  proper. 
But  it's  just  like  her!  I  know  her  tricks!  Look 
under  the  hair  over  her  ears! 

[Inspector   and  Garrity    start   to   examine   her; 
but  she  breaks  away  from  them.] 
[119] 


TWO  CROOKS 

Lucille.  Keep  away  from  me!  I'll  give  her  the 
stone!  [She  reaches  under  the  hair  over  her  right 
ear  and  throws  the  diamond  into  Mrs.  Simms- 
Vane's  lap.]    You  old  hag! 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Miss  Jones  [Miss  Jones 
comes  forward],  have  the  officers  take  these  persons 
away. 

[Miss  Jones  nods  to  the  officers  to  remove  Lucille 
and  Miller.  Garrity  takes  Lucille  into  his  custody 
and  they  exeunt  right.  The  Inspector  helps  Miller 
up  and  starts  toward  the  door  with  him,  where  Miller 
turns  round.] 

Miller  [savagely  to  Mrs.  Simms-Vane].  You'll 
not  beat  us  again!    [The  Inspector  putts  him  out.] 

Mrs.  Simms-Vane  [serenely  ignoring  his  remark]. 
Miss  Jones  [Miss  Jones  goes  nearer  to  her,  waiting], 
you  may  order  my  carriage  as  usual. 

[Miss  Jones  is  surprised,  but  quickly  nods  assent 
and  starts  toward  the  door.] 


CURTAIN 


[120 


WILL  O'  THE  WISP 

BY 

Doris  F.  Halman 


Reprinted  in  the  present  volume  through  the  courtesy 
of  the  Author. 


[121] 


CHARACTERS 

The  White-Faced  Girl 
The  Countrywoman 
The  Poet's  Wife 
The  Serving-Maid 


Copyright,  1916,  by  Doms  F.  Halman. 

First  produced  at  The  47  Workshop,  Harvard  University, 
December  8,   1916. 

No  amateur  or  professional  performance  of  any  kind  may 
be  given  except  with  the  author's  permission  and  upon  pay- 
ment of  royalty.  For  particulars,  address  Miss  Doris  F. 
Halman,  32  Webster  Street,  Brookline,  Massachusetts. 


122] 


WILL  0'   THE  WISP 

Scene.  Interior  of  a  farmhouse  at  the  end  of 
things.  A  plain,  gray  room,  with  black  furniture 
and  a  smoke-blackened  fireplace.  Door  to  outside, 
left  back.  Door  to  stairs,  right.  Fireplace  in  upper 
right-hand  corner;  armchair  in  lower  right-hand 
corner.  Below  the  door,  left,  a  square  table  with  a 
chair  at  either  side.  The  whole  center  of  the  wall, 
back,  is  taken  up  by  a  huge  window,  through  which 
one  can  glimpse  the  black  spaces  of  a  moor,  rising 
in  the  distance  to  a  sharp  cliff-head  silhouetted 
against  the  intense  blue  of  an  early  evening  sky. 
With  the  passage  of  the  action,  this  blue  fades  into 
a  starless  night.  There  are  two  candles  burning  in 
the  room,  one  on  the  table,  the  other  on  a  shelf  above 
the  armchair. 

When  the  curtain  rises,  the  countrywoman,  an  old 
and  withered  dame,  is  lighting  the  candle  on  the 
table.  Crouching  by  the  fireplace  at  the  other  side 
of  the  room,  is  the  ragged  figure  of  a  girl  with  a  white 
face  and  big  wistful  eyes,  a  strange  little  figure  wear- 
ing a  tight-fitting  gray  cap  which  covers  all  her  hair, 
a  silent  figure,  never  speaking.  Until  she  lifts  her 
head,  she  is  little  more  than  a  dim  gray  heap  in  the 
shadows. 

The  Countrywoman.  So  I  don't  know  what's  to 
become  of  me  any  more,  with  my  one  boarder  gone. 
A  poet  he  was,  to  be  sure,  but  a  good  one;  and  he 
ri231 


WILL  O'  THE  WISP 

paid  me  enough  every  summer  to  keep  my  soul 
and  body  together  through  the  rest  of  the  long  year. 
Seven  summers  he  came  that  way,  and  now  the 
time's  gone  by,  and  I  hear  never  no  word.  How  I'm 
to  keep  myself  alive,  I  don't  know;  and  since  I've 
took  you  in,  bless  you,  there's  the  two  of  us.  It 
may  be  you'll  have  to  go  again,  the  way  you  came, 
out  of  the  night,  though  you're  a  great  comfort 
bein'  here  to  talk  to,  and  a  help  to  me  in  my  work. 
Not  but  what  there'd  be  more  comfort  yet,  if  your 
poor  tongue  weren't  cursed  with  dumbness!  [She 
turns  away,  sighing,  and  a  queer  smile  flickers  over 
the  stray' s  face.] 

Dear  sake,  yes,  I'm  growin'  used  to  you.  But  a 
stray  who  comes  to  the  land's  end  is  as  welcome  as 
any  other.  Nor  are  those  likely  to  reach  here  at 
all,  who  aren't  vagabonds — or  poets.  By  which 
I  think  that  my  poet  is  gone  for  good,  and  you  must 
follow  after,  and  then  I'll  be  left  to  dwell  for  the 
rest  of  my  days  alone  with  the  spirits  of  the  moor 
and  of  the  sea  beyond.  Oh,  alack!  [She  sits  down, 
wiping  her  eyes.] 

I'll  not  forget  the  night  you  came.  A  month  ago 
it  was;  the  second  of  June;  and  the  day  before  was 
the  time  the  poet  always  come,  himself.  When  I 
see  your  white  face  peerin'  through  the  window 
there,  I  thought  'twas  him,  late,  and  lookin'  in 
for  the  joke  of  it,  to  see  if  I'd  given  him  up.  Then 
in  another  minute  you  was  standing'  in  the  door, 
poor  white  creature  that  you  were.  And  behind 
you  was  the  wind  sweeping'  over  the  moor,  and 
the  waves  sighin'  up  the  cliffhead  from  the  sea. 
[124] 


WILL  0'  THE  WISP 

God  knows  where  you  come  from,  and  you  couldn't 
tell.  But  you're  not  troublesome.  [The  creature 
smiles  at  her,  as  the  old  woman  goes  over  to  her,  and 
pats  her  shoulder.] 

No,  you're  not.  Neither  was  he.  Off  all  the  time 
he  was,  with  the  will-o'-the-wisps  of  the  field  and 
the  mermaids  of  the  deep,  learnin'  their  sweet 
songs.  No  trouble  at  all,  either  of  you, — only,  he 
paid.  [A  knock  at  the  door.  The  old  woman  starts 
and  cries  out  joyfully.  As  she  hurries  to  open,  she 
does  not  notice  that  the  girVs  face  grows  illumined 
as  she  stretches  forth  her  thin  arms  in  a  gesture  of 
infinite  grace.] 

He's  come!  After  four  weeks,  at  last!  He'll  pay 
again!  [The  door,  opened  by  her,  reveals  a  woman  in 
her  thirty-fifth  year,  dressed  in  the  extreme  of  style. 
She  enters,  followed  by  a  black-clad  maid,  who  carries 
a  traveling  bag.  Disappointed,  but  amazed,  the  old 
woman  falls  back  before  her.  By  this  time,  the  figure 
near  the  fireplace  is  crouching  expressionless  as  before.] 

The  Stylish  Lady.  Is  this  the  farmhouse  at  the 
land's  end? 

The  Countrywoman.    Yes,  so  please  you. 

[She  curtsies  as  well  as  her  bent  back  will  permit. 
The  strayfs  eyes  have  gone  from  the  lady  to  the  maid, 
and  are  fixed  on  the  servant  when  the  lady  speaks.] 

The  Lady.  Ah! — You  may  set  down  the  bag, 
Nora. 

The  Maid  [with  a  soft  brogue].      Yes,  ma'am. 

[She  gazes  nervously  about  the  dusky  room.] 

The  Lady  [to  the  countrywoman].  My  husband 
sent  me  to  you. 

[125] 


WILL  O'  THE  WISP 

[Quick  as  a  flash,  the  stray's  big  eyes  are  fastened  on 
the  lady.    They  never  waver  till  the  end  of  the  scene.] 

The  Countrywoman.  Your  husband?  How? 
There  are  no  husbands  at  the  land's  end.  Nobody 
but  me. 

The  Lady.  My  husband  has  been  here.  He  used 
to  board  with  you,  in  the  summer  time. 

The  Countrywoman.    Oh!    The  poet? 

The  Lady.    Yes.    I  am  the  poet's  wife. 

The   Countrywoman.     But — 

The  Lady.  We've  not  been  married  very  long. 
[She  hastens  to  add,  with  a  forced  sigh]  Of  course, 
it  pained  me  to  leave  him!  But  I  was  so  wearied 
from  social  pleasures  that  he  wanted  me  to  rest; 
and  what  was  I  to  do?  I  was  even  growing  bored, 
not  being  as  fresh  as  he  to  such  fulness  of  life.  But 
you  can  know  nothing  of  that,  here  at  the  end  of 
things.    You've  never  seen  the  world? 

The  Countrywoman  [glancing  through  the  loindow]. 
I've  seen  how  big  it  is,  and  how — queer. 

[Her  voice  grows  hushed  with  awe.  Follows  a 
slight  pause.  The  serving-maid  becomes  aware 
of  the  crouching  stray,  and  moves  farther  away, 
crossing  herself.  The  lady's  stare  at  the  old  woman 
ends  in  a  burst  of  laughter.] 

The  Lady.  Oh,  how  amusing!  I  think  I  shall 
enjoy  my  stay  with  you.  Will  you  take  me  in  for  a 
while? 

The  Countrywoman  [cackling  with  pleasure]. 
Now,  by  all  the  clouds  in  the  sky  to-night,  I  will! 

The  Lady.  I  shall  require  a  room  for  myself  and 
another  for  my  maid. 

[126] 


WILL  0'  THE  WISP 

The  Countrywoman.  And  your  husband,  good 
ma'am?    Doesn't  he  come? 

The  Lady.  No.  I  thought  better  not.  .  .  . 
There  seemed  to  be  some  influence  here  that  was  not 
good  for  him. 

The  Countrywoman.  Here,  ma'am?  At  the 
land's  end  he  loved  so  much? 

The  Lady  \laughing  unpleasantly].  Oh,  I  don't 
deny  he  found  his  inspiration  in  this  neighborhood. 
Summer  brought  his  best  work,  every  one  knows 
that.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  how  did  he  use  to  spend  his 
time? 

The  Countrywoman.  Why,  most  of  it,  out 
there. 

[She  waves  her  hand  toward  the  darkening  scene 
beyond  the  windows.] 

The  Lady  [sitting  at  the  right  of  the  table].  Ah? 
You  see,  he  never  told  me  about  it  in  detail,  for 
fear  I — couldn't  understand.  But  you  think  I  can 
understand,  don't  you? 

The  Countrywoman.  Good  ma'am,  are  you 
acquainted  with  the  spirits? 

The  Lady.     Certainly  not!     What  spirits?  . 

The  Countrywoman.    Those  he  knew. 

The  Lady.  Oh!  So  he  did  have  other  friends — 
beside  yourself? 

The  Countrywoman.  They  was  all  his  friends, 
good  ma'am.  He's  the  only  person  I  ever  knew 
could  walk  on  the  moor  by  night,  without  the  will- 
o'-the-wisp  should  dance  him  over  the  cliff.  In- 
stead o'  that,  it  taught  him  the  tune  it  dances  to, 
and  he  made  a  song  out  of  it.  My  own  man  ven- 
[127] 


WILL  0'  THE  WISP 

tured  into  the  darkness  years  ago,  and  never  came 
back  more.    But  the  poet  and  It  was  friends. 

The  Lady.     A  will-o'-the-wisp,  what  is  that? 

The  Countrywoman  [in  a  voice  of  awe].  It's  what 
keeps  you  in  the  house  o'  nights.  It's  a  wavin' 
light  that  beckons  you  to  follow  it.  And  when 
you've  been  for  miles  and  miles,  always  behind, 
why,  then  it  leaves  you;  and  the  morning  finds  you 
dead  in  a  ravine,  or  floatin'  under  the  cliff-head  in 
the  sea. 

The  Lady  [laughing].  Oh,  really!  What  a 
pleasant  companion  for  my  husband!  [The  crouch- 
ing figure  creeps  forward  a  bit  from  its  place  by  the 
fireside.  Again  the  maid,  flattened  against  the  wall, 
crosses  herself.]  But  pray  tell  me,  whom  else  did  he 
know? 

The  Countrywoman.  Poor  Will,  a  goblin  who 
cries  through  the  land's  end,  under  the  curse  of  an 
old,  old  sin.  And  the  mermaids  with  green  hair, 
that  sing  when  a  ship  goes  down. 

The  Lady.    Did  my  husband  tell  you  all  this? 

The  Countrywoman.  Yes,  good  ma'am,  and 
more;  whenever  for  hunger  he  come  home,  he  had  a 
tale  for  me. 

The  Lady.    And  you  believed  it? 

The  Countrywoman.  He  was  a  dear  young  man, 
I'm  not  even  blamin'  the  spirits,  that  they  loved 
him. 

The  Lady  [laughing].  But,  I  mean,  do  you  be- 
lieve  in   spirits? 

The  Countrywoman.  How  could  I  choose?  I 
see  them,  I  hear  them.  The  night  your  husband 
[128] 


WILL  O'  THE  WISP 

should  have  come — that  was  the  first  of  June— 
I  saw  the  will-o'-the-wisp  out  yonder  on  the  moor, 
as  plain  as  I  see  my  candles.  Not  dancin'  it  was, 
but  goin'  quite  slow  and  steady-like,  with  its 
lantern  lit,  as  if  it  was  seekin'  him.  And  I'm  not 
wonderin'  if,  sooner  or  later,  it  didn't  come  peepin' 
and  lookin'  through  this  very  window  into  my 
house,  to  find  the  friend  it  missed. 

The  Lady.  Oh,  what  nonsense!  What  utter, 
silly  bosh!  [The  serving-maid  comes  down  to  the 
left  of  the  table,  speaking  in  a  worried  whisper.] 

The  Maid.  I'd  not  be  sayin'  the  like,  ma'am, 
if  I  was  you.    It's  offering  the  goblins  temptation. 

The  Lady  [turning,  astonished].  What!  You,  too, 
Nora?    I  thought  you  had  more  sense! 

The  Maid.  In  the  old  country,  ma'am,  it's  the 
way  with  us  all,  to  believe. 

The  Lady.  Oh,  dear  me!  Well,  I  can't  grow 
superstitious,  Nora,  just  to  oblige  you.  That  will 
do. 

The  Maid.  Yes,  ma'am.  .  .  .  But  I  think  I'll 
be  leaving  you. 

The  Lady.    What? 

The  Maid.  Oh,  it's  afraid  I  am,  what  with  the 
old  woman's  talk,  and  the  look  of  the  moor  outside. 
We'd  better  be  going,  ma'am,  the  both  of  us. 
There's  no  good  waits  for  us  here. 

The  Lady.  You  may  go  when  you  please.  For 
myself,  I  prefer  to  stay  and  meet — some  of  my 
husband's  friends.  I  shall  certainly  not  be  fright- 
ened away  by  the  tales  my  husband — left  behind 
for  me. 

[129] 


WILL  O'   THE  WISP 

[She  laughs  again  unpleasantly;  and  the  creeping 
figure  comes  very  near  her  chair.  Across  the  table, 
the  maid  bursts  into  tears,  and  sinks  down  in  the 
chair  opposite.] 

The  Maid  [sobbing].  How  shall  I  take  me  way- 
back,  alone?    Oh,  the  Lord  pity  me! 

The  Countrywoman.  There,  there,  good  soul, 
the  spirits  wish  you  no  harm,  they'll  not  hurt  you. 

The  Lady  [impatiently].    Oh,  both  of  you,  be  still! 

The  Countrywoman.  Now,  you  see,  your  hus- 
band should  have  come. 

The  Lady.  My  good  woman,  I  told  you,  I  pre- 
ferred not;  he  is  so  contented  where  he  is — among 
my  friends. 

The  Countrywoman.  Alack!  Is  he  then  never 
to  come  again? 

The  Lady.    Don't  expect  him. 

The  Countrywoman.  But  the  songs?  The  tunes 
he  made,  and  paid  for  with  his  heart? 

The  Lady.  Fortunately,  it's  no  longer  a  ques- 
tion of  that. 

[The  stray1 's  white  face  peers  round  at  her.  Its 
eyes  seem  to  burn  the  woman  in  the  chair.] 

The  Countrywoman.  Good  ma'am,  pretty 
ma'am,  you  don't  mean  he's  give  up — singin'? 

The  Lady.  Oh,  yes.  Poets  usually  do,  you  know, 
when  they  marry  rich  women.  Weak,  the  lot  of 
them. 

[The  crouching  figure  half  starts  up;  its  teeth  are 
bared;  then  it  sinks  back  again.  The  countrywoman, 
covering  her  head  with  her  apron,  begins  to  sway  in 
her  chair.] 

[130] 


WILL  0;  THE  WISP 

The  Countrywoman.  Alack!  Alack  the  day! 
Alack  the  winter  time! 

The  Lady.  Indeed?  I  didn't  know  people  like 
you  cared  for  poetry. 

The  Countrywoman.  He'll  sing  no  more,  he'll 
pay  no  more.    The  land's  end  will  be  poor  and  still. 

The  Lady.  Ah,  now  I  understand  you.  You 
have  a  point  of  view;  well,  so  have  the  wives  of 
poets.  Just  as  he  gave  you  comfort  in  return  for 
his  inspiration,  we  give  them  ease  in  which  to  love 
us.  Why  shouldn't  we?  Why  should  they  play 
at  their  little  toy  battle  with  life,  when  we  can  put 
all  existence  into  their  very  hands?  That  is  our 
mission;  and  it  makes  them  very  comfortable,  I  as- 
sure you. 

[The  stray  springs  up  with  clawing,  hands  behind 
the  lady.    The  countrywoman  sees  her.] 

The  Countrywoman.    Here,  girl,  here! 

[At  the  cry,  the  stray  sinks  back  on  the  floor.  But 
her  eyes  never  cease  to  burn  the  woman's  face.  The 
poet's  wife,  looking  down,  has  now  become  aware  of 
her.    Her  silly  suspicion  seems  assured.] 

The  Lady  [sharply].    Who  k  this? 

The  Countrywoman  [moving  the  stray  back].  A 
poor  waif,  ma'am.  A  harmless,  dumb  waif,  who 
helps  me  in  the  house. 

The  Lady.  Oho!  Did  you  mention  her  among 
my  husband's  friends? 

The  Countrywoman.  Why,  no.  He  never  saw 
her.  Been  here  only  a  month,  she  has,  the  poor 
creature. 

The  Lady.    Where  did  she  come  from? 
[131] 


WILL  O'   THE  WISP 

The  Countrywoman.  The  good  Lord  knows! 
Not  I. 

The  Lady.  Ah.  Well,  from  the  looks  of  her,  I 
should  say  it  didn't  matter,  how  long  she  was  with 
you.  .  .  .    Come  here,  girl. 

The  Countrywoman.  Mind  what  the  lady  bids 
you. 

[  The  figure  on  ike  floor  lifts  a  face,  now  expression- 
less, to  the  poet's  wife.  For  the  third  time,  the  maid 
crosses  herself.] 

The  Lady.  Hm!  The  total  effect  of  you  is  not — 
dangerous.  [She  takes  the  stray's  face  between  her 
hands.  A  violent  shudder  shakes  the  latter  from 
head  to  foot,  as  she  shrinks  back  with  a  gliding  mo- 
tion; but  this  does  not  discourage  the  poet's  wife.] 
Don't  be  afraid  of  me,  silly  thing!  [She  turns  to 
the  countrywoman.]  Funny  how  fashion  impresses 
them,  isn't  it?     This  girl  turned  clammy  cold. 

The  Countrywoman  [nodding].  It's  the  feel  of 
her.  [The  poet's  wife  returns  to  her  scrutiny  of  the 
girl's  face.] 

The  Lady.  Yet,  you  know,  your  features  aren't 
so  bad.  If  you  only  had  a  little  color.  .  .  .  You 
should  never  wear  gray  with  that  white  face  of 
yours.  [She  addresses  the  room  in  general,  and  the 
maid  in  particular.]  Country  people  invariably 
have  no  idea  how  to  dress.    Eh,  Nora? 

The  Maid.  Ma'am,  for  the  love  of  God,  be  care- 
ful!   I'm  not  liking  the  eyes  of  herself! 

The  Lady  [laughing  lightly].  Oh,  her  eyes  are 
so  much  better  than  her  clothes!  But  I  forgot; 
you're  not  fit  to  talk  to  to-night,  are  you?  Well, 
[132] 


WILL  O'   THE  WISP 

that  will  do.  [She  turns  back  to  the  countrywoman.] 
Why  do  you  let  your  servant  wear  that  awful  cap? 
Doesn't  she  ever  take  it  off? 

The  Countrywoman.  Many's  the  time  I've 
spoke  of  it;  but  it's  a  stubborn  habit  with  her.  So 
I  lets  her  have  her  way,  for  peace. 

The  Lady  [to  the  stray].  But,  my  poor  girl,  that 
cap  is  awful!  If  only  your  hair  showed,  you'd  be 
so  much  better  looking.    What  makes  you  wear  it? 

[For  answer,  the  stray,  rising,  shuffles  past  the 
poeVs  wife  to  the  table.  It  is  the  first  time  during  the 
scene  that  she  has  looked  away  from  her.  As  she 
nears  the  table,  the  maid  on  the  other  side  shrinks 
back.  Once  there,  the  stray  turns  on  the  woman, 
and,  watching  her  instead  of  what  she  herself  does, 
she  readies  for  the  candle.  She  lifts  the  metal  ex- 
tinguisher from  the  candlestick,  holds  it  out  so  thai 
the  poet's  wife  may  see  it,  then  with  a  quick  motion 
places  it  over  the  flame.  The  candle  goes  out,  leaving 
the  room  dim  with  one  light.  In  her  nervousness, 
the  serving-maid  sobs  once  aloud.] 

The  Countrywoman.    What  would  this  be? 

The  Lady.    Do  you  know  what  she  meant? 

The  Countrywoman.   I  don't  see — I  don't  see.  .  . 

The  Lady.    She's  probably  mad,  poor  soul. 

The  Maid.  Oh,  Mother  of  God!  Mother  of 
God!    The  magic! 

The  Lady.  I  fail  to  find  any  magic  in  a  candle 
-going  out,  when  I've  just  watched  the  process. 
Really,  I  prefer  bed  to  such  gloomy  companionship. 
[She  rises,  and  speaks  to  the  countrywoman.]  Will 
you  light  us  upstairs,  please.  I'm  quite  sorry  I  came. 
[133] 


WILL  O'  THE  WISP 

The  Countrywoman  [re-lighting  the  second  candle]. 
There,  there,  good  ma'am.  It'll  all  be  more  cheer- 
ful in  the  morning. 

The  Lady.  I  feel  as  if  morning  would  never 
come,  with  this  whole  night  dragging  at  me. 

[The  countrywoman  gives  the  candle  to  Nora, 
who  has  picked  up  her  mistress7  bag.  Then  the  old 
dame  crosses  toward  the  candle  on  the  shelf.] 

The  Countrywoman.  Now,  if  you  and  your 
woman  will  follow  me.  .  .  .  The  poet's  room  was 
ready  for  him.  .  .  . 

[This  mention  of  the  poet  brings  another  convulsive 
moUon  from  the  stray.  The  lady's  attention  is 
thereby  arrested.] 

The  Lady.    Where  does  that  creature  sleep? 

The  Countrywoman.  Oh,  down  here,  on  a  mat 
by  the  fireside.  She'll  not  trouble  you  more,  good 
ma'am.  She'll  not  trouble  you  more.  [She  opens 
the  door  to  the  stairs.] 

The  Lady  [after  a  brief  hesitation].    Come,  Nora. 

[She  goes  out.  The  countrywoman  pauses  to 
speak  to  the  stray.] 

The  Countrywoman.  Good  night,  girl.  Go  to 
sleep  quietly.  [She  disappears,  and  we  hear  her 
voice]    Now,  good  ma'am.    Now,  so  please  you.  .  . 

[The  room,  lighted  only  by  Nora's  candle,  is  dim 
again.  Outside,  the  night  is  very  black.  The  serving- 
maid  crosses  the  room  silently.  In  its  center,  she 
passes  close  to  the  stray,  who  has  crept  there  to  look 
after  the  poet's  wife.  The  maid,  making  a  quick 
detour,  gasps  with  terror.  When  she  reaches  the 
fireplace,  she  rushes  for  the  stairs  with  a  little  scream 
[134] 


WILL  0'  THE  WISP 

thai  puts  her  candle  out;  we  hear  the  door  bang  be- 
hind  her.    The  room  is  completely  black. 

A  silence.  Then  the  motion  of  some  one  springing 
upright;  and  the  place  is  suffused  with  a  dim  glow 
of  orange  light.  The  light  shines  from  the  orange- 
red  hair  of  the  white-faced  girl,  a  burning  mass  of 
quivering,  gleaming  strands.  And  the  girl  herself 
stands  revealed,  a  spirit-creature,  red  and  white  and 
clad  in  fluttering  gray,  her  body  slim  and  swaying 
with  infinite  grace.  Not  even  the  poet's  wife  could 
question  the  beauty  of  her  wild  white  face,  Hi  into  a 
fierce  exaltation  by  the  glow  of  that  tumbling  hair. 
In  her  fingers  is  the  ugly  cap,  held  mockingly  toward 
the  door;  and  then  she  drops  it. 

Now  a  faint  music  sounds  from  somewhere,  a 
langorous  melody;  and  the  spirit  begins  to  sway  to  it. 
Not  quite  a  dance,  yet  nothing  else,  this  moving 
through  the  room. 

The  door  to  the  stairs  opens,  and  the  poeVs  wife 
appears,  trailing  a  white  room-robe  about  her.  The 
white-faced  girl  smiles  at  her,  smiles  quite  close  to 
her,  with  a  demon  behind  her  smile.] 

The  Lady.  Who  are  you? — Why  do  you  smile  at 
me, — unless — you're  glad  that  I  came  down? — 
You  knew  I  would  answer  to  that  music — he  used 
to  sing  me  a  song  to  it,  when  he  courted  me. — 
Was  it  out  of  his  love  for  you,  he  made  that  song? 
Oh,  it  might  well  have  been,  you  with  your  long 
white  arms  and  your  strange  white  face! — But 
he  sang  it  to  me,  do  you  hear?  To  me,  to  me,  to 
me,  it  is  my  song! 

You  smile. — You  are  so  sure  it  isn^t  mine. — But 
[135] 


WILL  0'  THE  WISP 

you  aren't  singing  it  now,  any  more  than  I  am! — 
Where  does  that  music  come  from? — What  are  you? 

Oh,  I  knew  there  was  something  here  that  held 
him. — I  had  all  the  right  to  him.~I  took  his  Jiffi, 
and  made  of  it  what  I  would,~but  I  couldn't 
reach  his  soul.  It  was  bound  up  to  something  ejse, 
his  soul.— I  wanted  to  see. — I  see  now. — BuT  I 
don't  understand! 

What  are  you?  Can  you  talk?  You  can,  you  can, 
you  devil!  You  called  me  down  to  tell  your  story, 
didn't  you?  Well,  triumph  over  me, — triumph! 
— only  speak!  [The  white-faced  girl,  in  her  dance, 
is  moving  toward  the  outer  door,  ever  eluding  the 
poet's  wife,  who  takes  a  few  steps  after  her.]  No, 
you're  not  going  away  without  it,  you  and  your 
magic  hair!  [She  reaches  desperately  for  the  waving 
hand,  which  glides  from  under  her  grasp.] 

You  burned  him  with  that  hair — you  burned  the 
soul  out  of  Turn. — But  now  Fve  come  in  his  place, 
and  you  can't  burn  me,  and  I  will  learn  why  you 
^mjlef  [Again  me  reach,  and  the  white  hand  slips 
away.] 

Do  you  mean  you  can't  talk? — Or  do  you  want 
me  alone?  [The  white-faced  girl,  near  the  door, 
has  raised  a  beckoning  hand.  There  is  now  a  teasing 
invitation  in  her  smile.]  Oh,  I'm  not  afraid  to  go 
with  you,  out  there! — Wait!  Wait! 

[For  the  white-faced  girl  has  opened  the  door.  As 
the  poet's  wife  crosses  the  room,  the  countrywoman 
comes,  drawn  by  the  talk,  down  the  stairs.  She  gives 
a  sudden  shriek.] 

The  Countrywoman.     Oh,  God! 
[136] 


WILL  0'  THE  WISP 

The  Lady  [briefly  turning,  annoyed].    What,  you? 

The  Countrywoman.  I  heard.  I  came.  [The 
poet's  wife  takes  another  step.] 

Don't  follow,  don't  follow,  for  the  love  of  Heaven! 
It's  the  Will-O'-The-Wisp! 

[In  the  doorway,  the  white-faced  girl  stoops,  and 
smiles  her  smile,  and  beckons.] 

The  Lady  [with  authority].  Let  be! — I  am  going 
after  her! — I  am  going  to  learn  the  truth! 

[She  nears  the  door,  just  as  the  serving-maid  ap- 
pears at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  With  a  scream,  Nora 
rushes  to  the  poeVs  wife,  and  clings  to  her.] 

The  Maid.  Stay  back!  Stay  back!  It's  to  your 
death  you  go! 

The  Lady  [pushing  her  to  the  floor].  Take  your 
hands  off  me. — There  are  no  such  things  as  spirits! 
— It's  a  trick  they  made  for  me! — my  husband 
and   her!     WAIT!— 

[For  the  white-faced  girl  has  passed  outside.  Only 
the  glow  of  her  hair,  quite  near,  shines  in  through 
the  open  door.] 

The  Countrywoman.  The  Will-O'-The-Wisp!— 
It's  her!— It's  her! 

The  Maid  [crying  out  at  the  same  time].  Stop,  I 
tell  ye! —  Stop,  stop,  stop! 

[The  poet's  wife  is  on  the  threshold.  The  orange 
light  recedes,  and  the  room  darkens.] 

The  Lady  [almost  majestic].  Wait! — I'm  not 
afraid!— WAIT  FOR  ME!— 

[She,  too,  passes  outside  the  door.  The  serving- 
maid  breaks  into  a  torrent  of  sobs.  After  a  moment, 
in  which  the  countrywoman  reaches  the  window, 
[137] 


The  Will  O'  The  Wisp 


WILL  O'  THE  WISP 

the  room  is  black  again.  And  the  music  has  died 
away.] 

The  Countrywoman.  Hush! — [The  sobs  of  the 
serving-maid  die  down  to  a  low  moan.]  Come  here 
by  me  at  the  window.    Ah,  see! 

The  Maid  [whispering].    What  is  it? 

[Now  through  door  and  window,  there  can  be  seen 
in  the  distance  a  moving  light,  growing  smaller  and 
smaller,  making  straight  for  where  one  saw  the  cliff- 
head  over  the  sea.] 

The  Countrywoman.  The  light!  TheWill-O'- 
The-Wisp!    And  something  white  behind  it. 

The  Maid  [whispering].    Is  it — me  mistress? 

The  Countrywoman  [turning  away].  Yes.  God 
have  mercy  upon  her. 

[The  maid  has  dragged  herself  over  to  the  window, 
and  kneels  on  the  floor,  looking  out.] 

The  Maid.  A  shadow  in  the  dark,  lit  up  by  that 
thing  ahead!    Oh,  it  is!    It  is! 

The  Countrywoman  [nerving  herself  for  the  sight]. 
Ah,  the  spirit! — it's  out  beyond  the  cliff-head!  And 
the  cold  sea  lies  beneath!  Woe  to  one  who  follows 
the  Will-O'-The-Wisp!    Woe! 

[Then  a  slight  pause,  in  which  the  light  no  longer 
moves.] 

The  Maid  [crying  out].  Look,  where  the  light 
is  after  standing  still!  And  not  a  sign  of  her! — 
Oh,  she's  gone  over!  Gone,  she  is!  And  she'll 
never  come  back! — 

[She  starts  to  keen — three  long  ochones — as  the 
curtain  falls.] 

[139] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 


BY 

Lady  Gregory 


Reprinted  from  Seoen  Short  Plays  by  Lady  Gregory  through 
the  courtesy  of  Lady  Gregory  and  Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's 
Sons,  Publishers,  New  York  and  London. 


[141] 


PERSONS 


Bartley  Fallon 
yf*  Mrs.  Fallon 
^tli  Jack  Smith 

Shawn  Early  <*W£ 

Tim  Casey      jf<aw*y 

James  Ryan    J"  ? 

Mrs.  Tarpey  '    -  »*->  s 

Mrs.  Tully 

A  Policeman  (Jo  Muldoon) 

A  Removable  Magistrate    T°??j£ 


Copyright  by  Lady  Gregory 

Permission  for  amateur  or  professional  performances  of 
any  kind  must  be  obtained  from  Samuel  French,  28  West 
38  Street,  New  York. 


[142 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

Scene:  The  outskirts  of  a  Fair.  An  Apple  Stall. 
Mrs.  Tarpey  sitting  at  it.  Magistrate  and  Police- 
man enter. 

Magistrate.  So  that  is  the  Fair  Green.  Cattle 
and  sheep  and  mud.  No  system.  What  a  repulsive 
sight! 

Policeman.    That  is  so,  indeed. 

Magistrate.  I  suppose  there  is  a  good  deal  of 
disorder  in  this  place? 

Policeman.    There  is. 

Magistrate.    Common  assault? 

Policeman.    It's  common  enough. 

Magistrate.    Agrarian  crime,  no  doubt? 

Policeman.    That  is  so. 

Magistrate.  Boycotting?  Maiming  of  cattle? 
Firing  into  houses? 

Policeman.  There  was  one  time,  and  there 
might  be  again. 

Magistrate.  That  is  bad.  Does  it  go  any  far- 
ther than  that? 

Policeman.    Far  enough,  indeed. 

Magistrate.  Homicide,  then!  This  district  has 
been  shamefully  neglected!  I  will  change  all  that. 
When  I  was  in  the  Andaman  Islands,  my  system 
never  failed.  Yes,  yes,  I  will  change  all  that. 
What  has  that  woman  on  her  stall? 
[143] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

Policeman.    Apples  mostly — and  sweets. 

Magistrate.  Just  see  if  there  are  any  unlicensed 
goods  underneath — spirits  or  the  like.  We  had 
evasions  of  the  salt  tax  in  the  Andaman  Islands. 

Policeman  [Sniffing  cautiously  and  upsetting 
a  heap  of  apples].    I  see  no  spirits  here — or  salt. 

Magistrate  [to  Mrs.  Tarpey].  Do  you  know  this 
town  wpll,  my  good  woman? 

Mrs.  Tarpey  [holding  out  some  apples].  A  penny 
the  half-dozen,  your  honour. 

Policeman  [shouting].  The  gentleman  is  asking 
do  you  know  the  town!    He's  the  new  magistrate! 

Mrs.  Tarpey  [rising  and  ducking].  Do  I  know 
the  town? ,  I  do,  to  be  sure. 

Magistrate  [shouting].    What  is  its  chief  business? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Business,  is  it?  What  business 
would  the  people  here  have  but  to  be  minding  one 
another's  business? 

Magistrate.    I  mean  what  trade  have  they? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Not  a  trade.  No  trade  at  all  but 
to  be  talking. 

Magistrate.    I  shall  learn  nothing  here. 

[James  Ryan  comes  in,  pipe  in  mouth.  Seeing 
Magistrate  he  retreats  quickly,  taking  pipe  frorrr 
mouth.] 

Magistrate.  The  smoke  from  that  man's  pipe 
had  a  greenish  look;  he  may  be  growing  unlicensed 
tobacco  at  home.  I  wish  I  had  brought  my  tele- 
scope to  this  district.  Come  to  the  post-office,  I 
will  telegraph  for  it.  I  found  it  very  useful  in  the 
Andaman  Islands.  [Magistrate  and  Policeman  go 
out  left.] 

[144] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Bad  luck  to  Jo  Muldoon,  knock- 
ing my  apples  this  way  and  that  way.  [Begins 
arranging  them.]  Showing  off  he  was  to  the  new 
magistrate.    [Enter  Bartley  Fallon  and  Mrs.  Fallon.] 

Bartley.  Indeed  it's  a  poor  country  and  a  scarce 
country  to  be  living  in.  But  I'm  thinking  if  I  went 
to  America  it's  long  ago  the  day  I'd  be  dead! 

Mrs.  Fallon.    So  you  might,  indeed. 

[She  puts  her  basket  on  a  barrel  and  begins  putting  .  ' 
parcels  in  it,  taking  them  from  under  her  cloak.] 

Bartley.  And  it's  a  great  expense  for  a  poor 
man  to  be  buried  in  America. 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Never  fear,  Bartley  Fallon,  but 
I'll  give  you  a  good  burying  the  day  you'll  die. 

Bartley.  Maybe  it's  yourself  will  be  buried  in 
the  graveyard  of  Cloonmara  before  me,  Mary 
Fallon,  and  I  myself  that  will  be  dying  unbe- 
knownst some  night,  and  no  one  a-near  me.  And 
the  cat  itself  may  be  gone  straying  through  the 
country,  and  the  mice  squealing  over  the  quilt. 
f  Mrs.  Fallon.  Leave  off  talking  of  dying.  It 
might  be  twenty  years  you'll  be  living  yet. 

Bartley  [with  a  deep  sigh].  I'm  thinking  if  I'll 
be  living  at  the  end  of  twenty  years,  it's  a  very  old 
man  I'll  be  then! 

Mrs.  Tarpey  [turns  and  sees  them].  Good  morrow, 
Bartley  Fallon;  good  morrow,  Mrs.  Fallon.  Well, 
Bartley,  you'll  find  no  cause  for  complaining  to- 
day; they  are  all  saying  it  was  a  good  fair. 

Bartley  [raising  his  voice].     It  was  not  a  good 
fair,  Mrs.  Tarpey.     It  was  a  scattered  sort  of  a 
fair.     If   we   didn't    expect    more,    we   got   less. 
T1451 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

That's  the  way  with  me  always;  whatever  I  have 
to  sell  goes  down  and  whatever  I  have  to  buy 
goes  up.  If  there's  ever  any  misfortune  coming 
to  this  world,  it's  on  myself  it  pitches,  like  a  flock 
of  crows  on  seed  potatoes. 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Leave  off  talking  of  misfortunes, 
and  listen  to  Jack  Smith  that  is  coming  the  way, 
and  he  singing. 

[Voice  of  Jack  Smith  heard  singing.] 
I  thought,  my  first  love, 

There' d  be  but  one  house  between  you  and  me, 
And  I  thought  I  would  find 

Yourself  coaxing  my  child  on  your  knee. 
Over  the  tide 

I  would  leap  with  the  leap  of  a  swan, 
Till  I  came  to  the  side 

Of  the  wife  of  the  Red-haired  man! 

[Jack  Smith  comes  in;  he  is  a  red-haired  manf 
and  is  carrying  a  hayfork.] 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  That  should  be  a  good  song  if  I 
had  my  hearing. 

Mrs.  Fallon  [shouting].  It's  "  The  Red-haired 
Man's  Wife." 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  I  know  it  well.  That's  the  song 
that  has  a  skin  on  it! 

[She  turns  her  back  to  them  and  goes  on  arranging 
her  apples.] 

Mrs.  Fallon.    Where's  herself,  Jack  Smith? 

Jack  Smith.  She  was  delayed  with  her  washing; 
bleaching  the  clothes  on  the  hedge  she  is,  and  she 
daren't  leave  them,  with  all  the  tinkers  that  do  be 
[146] 


Jack  Smith 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

passing  to  the  fair.  It  isn't  to  the  fair  I  came  my- 
self, but  to  the  Five  Acre  Meadow  I'm  going,  where 
I  have  a  contract  for  the  hay.  We'll*  get  a  share  of 
it  into  tramps  to-day.  [He  lays  down  hayfork  and 
itgTits^Ms-^ipe.] 

Bartley.  You  will  not  get  it  into  tramps  to-day. 
The  rain  will  be  down  on  it  by  evening,  and  on  my- 
self too.  It's  seldom  I  ever  started  on  a  journey 
but  the  rain  would  come  down  on  me  before  I'd 
find  any  place  of  shelter. 

Jack  Smith.  If  it  didn't  itself,  Bartley,  it  is 
my  belief  you  would  carry  a  leaky  pail  on  your 
head  in  place  of  a  hat,  the  way  you'd  not  be  without 
some  cause  of  complaining. 

[A  voice  heard,  "  Go  on,  now,  go  on  out  o'  that.  Go 
on  I  say."] 

Jack  Smith.  Look  at  that  young  mare  of  Pat 
Ryan's  that  is  backing  into  Shaughnessy's  bul- 
locks with  the  dint  of  the  crowd!  Don't  be  daunted, 
Pat,  I'll  give  you  a  hand  with  her. 

[  He  goes  out,  leaving  his  hayfork.] 

Mrs.  Fallon.  It's  time  for  ourselves  to  be  going 
home.  I  have  all  I  bought  put  in  the  basket. 
Look  at  there,  Jack  Smith's  hayfork  he  left  after 
him!  He'll  be  wanting  it.  [Calls.]  Jack  Smith! 
Jack  Smith! — He's  gone  through  the  crowd — hurry 
after  him,  Bartley,  he'll  be  wanting  it. 

Bartley.  I'll  do  that.  This  is  no  safe  place  to 
be  leaving  it.  [He  takes  up  fork  awkwardly  and 
upsets  the  basket.]  Look  at  that  now!  If  there  is 
any  basket  in  the  fair  upset,  it  must  be  our  own 
basket!  [  He  goes  out  to  right.] 
[148] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Get  out  of  that!  It  is  your  own 
fault,  it  is.  Talk  of  misfortunes  and  misfortunes 
will  come.  Glory  be!  Look  at  my  new  egg-cups 
rolling  in  every  part — and  my  two  pound  of  sugar 

with   the   paper   broke 

j  Mrs.  Tarpey  [turning  from  stall].    God  help  us, 
Mrs.  Fallon,  what  happened  your  basket? 

Mrs.  Fallon.  It's  himself  that  knocked  it  down, 
bad  manners  to  him.  [Putting  things  up.]  My 
grand  sugar  that's  destroyed,  and  he'll  not  drink 
his  tea  without  it.  I  had  best  go  back  to  the  shop 
for  more,  much  good  may  it  do  him! 

[Enter  Tim  Casey.] 
p  Tim  Casey.  Where  is  Bartley  Fallon,  Mrs. 
Fallon?  I  want  a  word  with  him  before  he'll  leave 
the  fair.  I  was  afraid  he  might  have  gone  home  by 
this,  for  he's  a  temperate  man. 
'  Mrs.  Fallon.  I  wish  he  did  go  home!  It'd  be 
best  for  me  if  he  went  home  straight  from  the  fair 
green,  or  if  he  never  came  with  me  at  all!  Where  is 
he,  is  it?  He's  gone  up  the  road  [jerks  elbow]  fol- 
lowing Jack  Smith  with  a  hayfork. 

[She  goes  out  to  left.] 

Tim  Casey.  Following  Jack  Smith  with  a  hay- 
fork! Did  ever  any  one  hear  the  like  of  that. 
[Shouts.]    Did  you  hear  that  news,  Mrs.  Tarpey? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.    I  heard  no  news  at  all. 

Tim  Casey.  Some  dispute  I  suppose  it  was  that 
rose  between  Jack  Smith  and  Bartley  Fallon,  and 
it  seems  Jack  made  off,  and  Bartley  is  following 
him  with  a  hayfork! 

Mrs.  Tarpey.    Is  he  now?    Well,  that  was  quick 
[149] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

work!  It's  not  ten  minutes  \since  the  two  of  them 
were  here,  Bartley  going  home  and  Jack  going  to 
the  Five  Acre  Meadow;  and  I  had  my  apples  to 
settle  up,  that  Jo  Muldoon  of  the  police  had  scat- 
tered, and  when  I  looked  round  again  Jack  Smith 
was  gone,  and  Bartley  Fallon  was  gone,  and  Mrs. 
Fallon's  basket  upset,  and  all  in  it  strewed  upon  the 
ground — the  tea  here — the  two  pound  of  sugar 
there — the  egg-cups  there — Look,  now,  what  a 
great  hardship  the  deafness  puts  upon  me,  that  I 
didn't  hear  the  commincement  of  the  fight!  Wait 
till  I  tell  James  Ryan  that  I  see  below;  he  is  a 
neighbour  of  Bartley's,  it  would  be  a  pity  if  he 
wouldn't  hear  the  news! 

[She  goes  out.  Enter  Shawn  Early  and  Mrs. 
Tully.] 

Tim  Casey.  Listen,  Shawn  Early!  Listen, 
Mrs.  Tully,  to  the  news!  Jack  Smith  and  Bartley 
Fallon  had  a  falling  out,  and  Jack  knocked  Mrs. 
Fallon's  basket  into  the  road,  and  Bartley  made  an 
attack  on  him  with  a  hayfork,  and  away  with 
Jack,  and  Bartley  after  him.  Look  at  the  sugar 
here  yet  on  the  road! 

Shawn  Early.  Do  you  tell  me  so?  Well,  that's 
a  queer  thing,  and  Bartley  Fallon  so  quiet  a  man! 

Mrs.  Tully.  I  wouldn't  wonder  at  all.  I  would 
never  think  well  of  a  man  that  would  have  that 
sort  of  a  mouldering  look.  It's  likely  he  has  over- 
taken Jack  by  this. 

[Enter  James  Ryan  and  Mrs.  Tarpey.] 

James  Ryan.  That  is  great  news  Mrs.  Tarpey 
was  telling  me!  I  suppose  that's  what  brought 
[150] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

the  police  and  the  magistrate  up  this  way.  I  was 
wondering  to  see  them  in  it  a  while  ago. 

Shawn  Early.  The  police  after  them?  Bartley 
Fallon  must  have  injured  Jack  so.  They  wouldn't 
meddle  in  a  fight  that  was  only  for  show! 

Mrs.  TuUy.  Why  wouldn't  he  injure  him? 
There  was  many  a  man  killed  with  no  more  of  a 
weapon  than  a  hayfork. 

James  Ryan.  Wait  till  I  run  north  as  far  as 
Kelly's  bar  to  spread  the  news!    [  He  goes  out.] 

Tim  Casey.  I'll  go  tell  Jack  Smith's  first  cousin 
that  is  standing  there  south  of  the  church  after 
selling  his  lambs.     [Goes  out.] 

Mrs.  TuUy.  I'll  go  telling  a  few  of  the  neigh- 
bours I  see  beyond  to  the  west.    [Goes  out] 

Shawn  Early.  I'll  give  word  of  it  beyond  at  the 
east  of  the  green. 

[Is  going  out  when  Mrs.  Tarpey  seizes  hold  of 
him.] 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Stop  a  minute,  Shawn  Early, 
and  tell  me  did  you  see  red  Jack  Smith's  wife, 
Kitty  Keary,  in  any  place? 

Shawn  Early.  I  did.  At  her  own  house  she  was, 
drying  clothes  on  the  hedge  as  I  passed. 

Mrs.  Tarpey.    What  did  you  say  she  was  doing? 

Shawn  Early  [breaking  away].  Laying  out  a 
sheet  on  the  hedge.    [He  goes.] 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Laying  out  a  sheet  for  the  dead! 
The  Lord  have  mercy  on  us!  Jack  Smith  dead, 
and  his  wife  laying  out  a  sheet  for  his  burying! 
[Calls  out.]  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  before, 
Shawn  Early?  Isn't  the  deafness  the  great  hard- 
[151] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

ship?  Half  the  world  might  be  dead  without  me 
knowing  of  it  or  getting  word  of  it  at  all!  [She 
sits  down  and  rocks  herself.]  O  my  poor  Jack 
Smith!  To  be  going  to  his  work  so  nice  and  so 
hearty,  and  to  be  left  stretched  on  the  ground  in 
the  full  light  of  the  day! 

[Enter  Tim  Casey.] 

Tim  Casey.  What  is  it,  Mrs.  Tarpey?  What 
happened  since? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.    O  my  poor  Jack  Smith! 

Tim  Casey.     Did  Bartley  overtake  him? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.    0  the  poor  man! 

Tim  Casey.    Is  it  killed  he  is? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Stretched  in  the  Five  Acre 
Meadow! 

Tim  Casey.  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  us!  Is 
that  a  fact? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Without  the  rites  of  the  Church 
or  a  ha'porth! 

Tim  Casey.    Who  was  telling  you? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  And  the  wife  laying  out  a  sheet 
for  his  corpse.  [Sits  up  and  wipes  her  eyes.]  I 
suppose  they'll  wake  him  the  same  as  another? 

[Enter  Mrs.  Tully,  Shawn  Early,  and  James 
Ryan.] 

Mrs.  Tully.  There  is  great  talk  about  this  work 
in  every  quarter  of  the  fair. 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Ochone!  cold  and  dead.  And 
myself  maybe  the  last  he  was  speaking  to! 

James  Ryan.    The  Lord  save  us!    Is  it  dead  he  is? 

Tim  Casey.  Dead  surely,  and  the  wife  getting 
provision  for  the  wake. 

[152] 


SPREADING  THE   NEWS 

Shawn  Early.  Well,  now,  hadn't  Bartley  Fallon 
great  venom  in  him? 

Mrs.  Tully.  You  may  be  sure  he  had  some  cause. 
Why  would  he  have  made  an  end  of  him  if  he 
had  not?  [To  Mrs.  Tarpey,  raising  her  voice.] 
What  was  it  rose  the  dispute  at  all,  Mrs.  Tarpey? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Not  a  one  of  me  knows.  The 
last  I  saw  of  them,  Jack  Smith  was  standing  there, 
and  Bartley  Fallon  was  standing  there,  quiet  and 
easy,  and  he  listening  to  "  The  Red-haired  Man's 
Wife." 

Mrs.  Tully.  Do  you  hear  that,  Tim  Casey? 
Do  you  hear  that,  Shawn  Early  and  James  Ryan? 
Bartley  Fallon  was  here  this  morning  listening  to 
red  Jack  Smith's  wife,  Kitty  Keary  that  was! 
Listening  to  her  and  whispering  with  her!  It  was 
she  started  the  fight  so! 

Shawn  Early.  She  must  have  followed  him 
from  her  own  house.  It  is  likely  some  person 
roused  him. 

Tim  Casey.  I  never  knew,  before,  Bartley 
Fallon  was  great  with  Jack  Smith's  wife. 

Mrs.  Tully.  How  would  you  know  it?  Sure 
it's  not  in  the  streets  they  would  be  calling  it. 
If  Mrs.  Fallon  didn't  know  of  it,  and  if  I  that  have 
the  next  house  to  them  didn't  know  of  it,  and  if 
Jack  Smith  himself  didn't  know  of  it,  it  is  not  likely 
you  would  know  of  it,  Tim  Casey. 

Shawn  Early.  Let  Bartley  Fallon  take  charge 
of  her  from  this  out  so,  and  let  him  provide  for 
her.  It  is  little  pity  she  will  get  from  any  person 
in  this  parish. 

[153] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

Tim  Casey.  How  can  he  take  charge  of  her? 
Sure  he  has  a  wife  of  his  own.  Sure  you  don't 
think  he'd  turn  souper  and  marry  her  in  a  Prot- 
estant church? 

James  Ryan.  It  would  be  easy  for  him  to  marry 
her  if  he  brought  her  to  America. 

Shawn  Early.  With  or  without  Kitty  Keary, 
believe  me  it  is  for  America  he's  making  at  this 
minute.  I  saw  the  new  magistrate  and  Jo  Mul- 
doon  of  the  police  going  into  the  post-office  as  I 
came  up — there  was  hurry  on  them — you  may 
be  sure  it  was  to  telegraph  they  went,  the  way  he'll 
be  stopped  in  the  docks  at  Queenstown! 

Mrs.  Tully.  It's  likely  Kitty  Keary  is  gone  with 
him,  and  not  minding  a  sheet  or  a  wake  at  all.  The 
poor  man,  to  be  deserted  by  his  own  wife,  and  the 
breath  hardly  gone  out  yet  from  his  body  that  is 
lying  bloody  in  the  field! 

[Enter  Mrs.  Fallon.] 

Mrs.  Fallon.  What  is  it  the  whole  of  the  town 
is  talking  about?  And  what  is  it  you  yourselves 
are  talking  about?  Is  it  about  my  man  Bartley 
Fallon  you  are  talking?  Is  it  lies  about  him  you 
are  telling,  saying  that  he  went  killing  Jack  Smith? 
My  grief  that  ever  he  came  into  this  place  at  all! 

James  Ryan.  Be  easy  now,  Mrs.  Fallon.  Sure 
there  is  no  one  at  all  in  the  whole  fair  but  is  sorry 
for  you! 

Mrs.  Fallon.    Sorry  for  me,  is  it?    Why  would 

any  one  be  sorry  for  me?     Let  you  be  sorry  for 

yourselves,  and  that  there  may  be  shame  on  you 

for  ever  and  at  the  day  of  judgment,  for  the  words 

[1641 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

you  are  saying  and  the  lies  you  are  telling  to  take 
away  the  character  of  my  poor  man,  and  to  take 
the  good  name  off  of  him,  and  to  drive  him  to 
destruction!    That  is  what  you  are  doing! 

Shawn  Early.  Take  comfort  now,  Mrs.  Fallon. 
The  police  are  not  so  smart  as  they  think.  Sure 
he  might  give  them  the  slip  yet,  the  same  as 
Lynchehaun. 

Mrs.  Tully.  If  they  do  get  him,  and  if  they  do 
put  a  rope  around  his  neck,  there  is  no  one  can  say 
he  does  not  deserve  it! 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Is  that  what  you  are  saying, 
Bridget  Tully,  and  is  that  what  you  think?  I 
tell  you  it's  too  much  talk  you  have,  making  your- 
self out  to  be  such  a  great  one,  and  to  be  running 
down  every  respectable  person!  A  rope,  is  it? 
It  isn't  much  of  a  rope  was  needed  to  tie  up  your 
own  furniture  the  day  you  came  into  Martin 
Tully's  house,  and  you  never  bringing  as  much  as  a 
blanket,  or  a  penny,  or  a  suit  of  clothes  with  you 
and  I  myself  bringing  seventy  pounds  and  two 
feather  beds.  And  now  you  are  stiffer  than  a 
woman  would  have  a  hundred  pounds!  It  is  too 
much  talk  the  whole  of  you  have.  A  rope  is  it? 
I  tell  you  the  whole  of  this  town  is  full  of  liars  anxi 
schemers  that  would  hang  you  up  for  half  a  glass 
o£-whiskey.  [  Turning  to  go.]  People  they  are  you 
wouldn't  believe  as  much  as  daylight  from  with- 
out you'd  get  up  to  have  a  look  at  it  yourself. 
Killing  Jack  Smith  indeed!  Where  are  you  at  all, 
Bartley,  till  I  bring  you  out  of  this?  My  nice 
quiet  little  man!  My  decent  comrade!  He  that 
[155] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

is  as  kind  and  as  harmless  as  an  innocent  beast  of 
the  field!  He'll  be  doing  no  harm  at  all  if  he'll  shed 
the  blood  of  some  of  you  after  this  day's  work! 
That  much  would  be  no  harm  at  all.  [Calls  out.] 
Bartley!  Bartley  Fallon!  Where  are  you?  [Going 
out.]    Did  any  one  see  Bartley  Fallon? 

[All  turn  to  look  after  her.] 

James  Ryan.  It  is  hard  for  her  to  believe  any 
such  a  thing,  God  help  her! 

[Enter  Bartley  Fallon  from  right,  carrying  hay- 
fork.] 

Bartley.  It  is  what  I  often  said  to  myself,  if 
there  is  ever  any  misfortune  coming  to  this  world 
it  is  on  myself  it  is  sure  to  come! 

[All  turn  round  and  face  him.] 

Bartley.  To  be  going  about  with  this  fork  and 
to  find  no  one  to  take  it,  and  no  place  to  leave  it 
down,  and  I  wanting  to  be  gone  out  of  this — Is  that 
you,  Shawn  Early?  [  Holds  out  fork.]  It's  well  I 
met  you.  You  have  no  call  to  be  leaving  the  fair 
for  a  while  the  way  I  have,  and  how  can  I  go  till 
I'm  rid  of  this  fork?  Will  you  take  it  and  keep  it 
until  such  time  as  Jack  Smith 

Shawn  Early  [backing].  I  will  not  take  it,  Bart- 
ley Fallon,  I'm  very  thankful  to  you! 

Bartley  [turning  to  apple  stall].  Look  at  it  now, 
Mrs.  Tarpey,  it  was  here  I  got  it;  let  me  thrust 
it  in  under  the  stall.  It  will  lie  there  safe  enough, 
and  no  one  will  take  notice  of  it  until  such  time 
as  Jack  Smith 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Take  your  fork  out  of  that!  Is 
it  to  put  trouble  on  me  and  to  destroy  me  you  want? 
[156] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

putting  it  there  for  the  police  to  be  rooting  it  out 
maybe.     [Thrusts  him  back.] 

Bartley.  That  is  a  very  unneighbourly  thing 
for  you  to  do,  Mrs.  Tarpey.  Hadn't  I  enough  care 
on  me  with  that  fork  before  this,  running  up  and 
down  with  it  like  the  swinging  of  a  clock,  and 
afeard  to  lay  it  down  in  any  place!  I  wish  I  never 
touched  it  or  meddled  with  it  at  all! 

James  Ryan.    It  is  a  pity,  indeed,  you  ever  did. 

Bartley.  Will  you  yourself  take  it,  James  Ryan? 
You  were  always  a  neighbourly  man. 

James  Ryan  [backing].  There  is  many  a  thing 
I  would  do  for  you,  Bartley  Fallon,  but  I  won't 
do  that! 

Shawn  Early.  I  tell  you  there  is  no  man  will 
give  you  any  help  or  any  encouragement  for  this 
day's  work.    If  it  was  something  agrarian  now 

Bartley.  If  no  one  at  all  will  take  it,  maybe 
it's  best  to  give  it  up  to  the  police. 

Tim  Casey.  There' d  be  a  welcome  for  it  with 
them  surely!     [Laughter.] 

Mrs.  Tully.  And  it  is  to  the  police  Kitty  Keary 
herself  will  be  brought. 

Mrs.  Tarpey  [rocking  to  and  fro].  I  wonder  now 
who  will  take  the  expense  of  the  wake  for  poor 
Jack  Smith? 

Bartley.    The  wake  for  Jack  Smith! 

Tim  Casey.  Why  wouldn't  he  get  a  wake  as  well 
as  another?    Would  you  begrudge  him  that  much? 

Bartley.  Red  Jack  Smith  dead!  Who  was  telling 
you? 

Shawn  Early.   The  whole  town  knows  of  it  by  this. 

r  1571 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 


James  Ryan  at  the  Fair 


Bartley.    Do  they  say  what  way  did  he  die? 

James  Ryan.  You  don't  know  that  yourself, 
I  suppose,  Bartley  Fallon?  You  don't  know  he 
was  followed  and  that  he  was  laid  dead  with  the 
stab  of  a  hayfork? 

[158] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

Bartley.    The  stab  of  a  hayfork! 

Shawn  Early.  You  don't  know,  I  suppose, 
that  the  body  was  found  in  the  Five  Acre  Meadow? 

Bartley.    The  Five  Acre  Meadow! 

Tim  Casey.  It  is  likely  you  don't  know  that  the 
police  are  after  the  man  that  did  it? 

Bartley.    The  man  that  did  it! 

Mrs.  Tully.  You  don't  know,  maybe,  that  he 
was  made  away  with  for  the  sake  of  Kitty  Keary, 
his  wife? 

Bartley.    Kitty  Keary,  his  wife! 

[Sits  down  bewildered.] 

Mrs.  Tully.  And  what  have  you  to  say  now, 
Bartley  Fallon? 

Bartley  [crossing  himself].  I  to  bring  that  fork 
here.,  and  to  find  that  news  before  me!  It  is  much 
if  I  can  ever  stir  from  this  place  at  all,  or  reach  as 
far  as  the  road! 

Tim  Casey.  Look,  boys,  at  the  new  magistrate, 
and  Jo  Muldoon  along  with  him!  It's  best  for 
us  to  quit  this. 

Shawn  Early.  That  is  so.  It  is  best  not  to  be 
mixed  in  this  business  at  all. 

James  Ryan.  Bad  as  he  is,  I  wouldn't  like  to 
be  an  informer  against  any  man. 

[All  hurry  away  except  Mrs.  Tarpey,  who  remains 
behind  her  stall.    Enter  magistrate  and  policeman.] 

Magistrate.  I  knew  the  district  was  in  a  bad 
state,  but  I  did  not  expect  to  be  confronted  with 
a  murder  at  the  first  fair  I  came  to. 

Policeman.    I  am  sure  you  did  not,  indeed. 

Magistrate.  It  was  well  I  had  not  gone  home. 
[159] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

I  caught  a  few  words  here  and  there  that  roused 
my  suspicions. 

Policeman.    So  they  would,  too. 

Magistrate.  You  heard  the  same  story  from 
everyone  you  asked? 

Policeman.  The  same  story — or  if  it  was  not 
altogether  the  same,  anyway  it  was  no  less  than 
the  first  story. 

Magistrate.  What  is  that  man  doing?  He  is 
sitting  alone  with  a  hayfork.  He  has  a  guilty  look. 
The  murder  was  done  with  a  hayfork! 

Policeman  [in  a  whisper \.  That's  the  very 
man  they  say  did  the  act;  Bartley  Fallon  himself! 

Magistrate.  He  must  have  found  escape  diffi- 
cult— he  is  trying  to  brazen  it  out.  A  convict 
in  the  Andaman  Islands  tried  the  same  game,  but 
he  could  not  escape  my  system!  Stand  aside — 
Don't  go  far — have  the  handcuffs  ready.  [He 
walks  up  to  Bartley,  folds  his  arms,  and  stands 
before  him.]  Here,  my  man,  do  you  know  anything 
of  John  Smith? 

Bartley.    Of  John  Smith!    Who  is  he,  now? 

Policeman.    Jack  Smith,  sir — Red  Jack  Smith! 

Magistrate  [coming  a  step  nearer  and  tapping 
him  on  the  shoulder].    Where  is  Jack  Smith? 

Bartley  [with  a  deep  sigh,  and  shaking  his  head 
slowly].     Where  is  he,  indeed? 

Magistrate.    What  have  you  to  tell? 

Bartley.  It  is  where  he  was  this  morning,  stand- 
ing in  this  spot,  singing  his  share  of  songs—*©, 
but  lighting  his  pipe — scraping  a  match  oa-tha 

sole  of  his  shoe- 

[160] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

Magistrate.  I  ask  you,  for  the  third  time,  where 
is  he? 

Bartley.  I  wouldn't  like  to  say  that.  It  is  a 
great  mystery,  and  it  is  hard  to  say  of  any  man, 
did  he  earn  hatred  or  love. 

Magistrate.    Tell  me  all  you  know. 

Bartley.  All  that  I  know —  Well,  there  are 
the  three  estates;  there  is  Limbo,  and  there  is 
Purgatory,  and  there  is 

Magistrate.  Nonsense!  This  is  trifling!  Get 
to  the  point. 

Bartley.  Maybe  you  don't  hold  with  the  clergy 
so?  That  is  the  teaching  of  the  clergy.  Maybe 
you  hold  with  the  old  people.  It  is  what  they  do 
be  saying,  that  the  shadow  goes  wandering,  and 
the  soul  is  tired,  and  the  body  is  taking  a  rest — 
The  shadow!  [Starts  up.]  I  was  nearly  sure  I  saw 
Jack  Smith  not  ten  minutes  ago  at  the  corner  of 
the  forge,  and  I  lost  him  again — Was  it  his  ghost 
I  saw,  do  you  think? 

Magistrate  [to  policeman].  Conscience-struck! 
He  will  confess  all  now! 

Bartley.  His  ghost  to  come  before  me!  It  is 
likely  it  was  on  account  of  the  fork!  I  to  have  it 
and  he  to  have  no  way  to  defend  himself  the  time 
he  met  with  his  death! 

Magistrate  [to  policeman].  I  must  note  down  his 
words.  [Takes  out  notebook.]  [To  Bartley:]  I  warn 
you  that  your  words  are  being  noted. 

Bartley.  If  I  had  ha'  run  faster  in  the  begin- 
ning, this  terror  would  not  be  on  me  at  the  latter 
end!  Maybe  he  will  cast  it  up  against  me  at  the 
[161] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

day  of  judgment —  I  wouldn't  wonder  at  all  at 
that. 

Magistrate  [writing].  At  the  day  of  judg- 
ment  

Bartley.  It  was  soon  for  his  ghost  to  appear  to 
me — is  it  coming  after  me  always  by  day  it 
will  be,  and  stripping  the  clothes  off  in  the  night 
time? —  I  wouldn't  wonder  at  all  at  that,  being 
as  I  am  an  unfortunate  man! 

Magistrate  [sternly].  Tell  me  this  truly.  What 
was  the  motive  of  this  crime? 

Bartley.    The  motive,  is  it? 

Magistrate.    Yes;  the  motive;  the  cause. 

Bartley.    I'd  sooner  not  say  that. 

Magistrate.  You  had  better  tell  me  truly. 
Was  it  money? 

Bartley.  Not  at  all!  What  did  poor  Jack  Smith 
ever  have  in  his  pockets  unless  it  might  be  his 
hands  that  would  be  in  them? 

Magistrate.    Any  dispute  about  land? 

Bartley  [indignantly].  Not  at  all!  He  never  was 
a  grabber  or  grabbed  from  any  one! 

Magistrate.  You  will  find  it  better  for  you  if 
you  tell  me  at  once. 

Bartley.  I  tell  you  I  wouldn't  for  the  whole 
world  wish  to  say  what  it  was — it  is  a  thing  I  would 
not  like  to  be  talking  about. 

Magistrate.  There  is  no  use  in  hiding  it.  It 
will  be  discovered  in  the  end. 

Bartley.  Well,  I  suppose  it  will,  seeing  that 
mostly  everybody  knows  it  before.  Whisper  here 
now.  I  will  tell  no  lie;  where  would  be  the  use? 
[162] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

[Puts  his  hand  to  his  mouthy  and  Magistrate  stoops.] 
Don't  be  putting  the  blame  on  the  parish,  for  such 
a  thing  was  never  done  in  the  parish  before — it  was 
done  for  the  sake  of  Kitty  Keary,  Jack  Smith's  wife. 

Magistrate  [to  policeman].  Put  on  the  hand- 
cuffs. We  have  been  saved  some  trouble.  I  knew 
he  would  confess  if  taken  in  the  right  way. 

[Policeman  puts  on  handcuffs.] 

Bartley.  Handcuffs  now!  Glory  be!  I  always 
said,  if  there  was  ever  any  misfortune  coming  to 
this  place  it  was  on  myself  it  would  fall.  I  to  be 
in  handcuffs!    There's  no  wonder  at  all  in  that. 

[Enter  Mrs.  Fallon,  followed  by  the  rest.  She  is 
looking  back  at  them  as  she  speaks.] 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Telling  lies  the  whole  of  the  people 
of  this  town  are;  telling  lies,  telling  lies  as  fast  as 
a  dog  will  trot!  Speaking  against  my  poor  respect- 
able man!  Saying  he  made  an  end  of  Jack  Smith! 
My  decent  comrade!  There  is  no  better  man  and 
no  kinder  man  in  the  whole  of  the  five  parishes! 
It's  little  annoyance  he  ever  gave  to  any  one! 
[Turns  and  sees  him.]  What  in  the  earthly  world 
do  I  see  before  me?  Bartley  Fallon  in  charge  of 
the  police!  Handcuffs  on  him!  O  Bartley,  what 
did  you  do  at  all  at  all? 

Bartley.  O  Mary,  there  has  a  great  misfortune 
come  upon  me!  It  is  what  I  always  said,  that 
if  there  is  ever  any  misfortune 

Mrs.  Fallon.  What  did  he  do  at  all,  or  is  it 
bewitched  I  am? 

Magistrate.  This  man  has  been  arrested  on  a 
charge  of  murder. 

[163] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Whose  charge  is  that?  Don't 
believe  them!  They  are  all  liars  in  this  place! 
Give  me  back  my  man! 

Magistrate.  It  is  natural  you  should  take  his 
part,  but  you  have  no  cause  of  complaint  against 
your  neighbours.  He  has  been  arrested  for  the 
murder  of  John  Smith,  on  his  own  confession. 

Mrs.  Fallon.  The  saints  of  heaven  protect  us! 
And  what  did  he  want  killing  Jack  Smith? 

Magistrate.  It  is  best  you  should  know  all.  He 
did  it  on  account  of  a  love  affair  with  the  murdered 
man's  wife. 

Mrs.  Fallon  [sitting  down].  With  Jack  Smith's 
wife!     With  Kitty  Keary! — Ochone,  the  traitor! 

The  Crowd.  A  great  shame,  indeed.  He  is  a 
traitor,  indeed. 

Mrs.  Tully.  To  America  he  was  bringing  her, 
Mrs.  Fallon. 

Bartley.  What  are  you  saying,  Mary?  I  tell 
you 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Don't  say  a  word!  I  won't  listen 
to  any  word  you'll  say!  [Stops  her  ears.]  O,  isn't 
he  the  treacherous  villain?   Ohone-go-dee! 

Bartley.  Be  quiet  till  I  speak!  Listen  to  what 
I  say!  H»»//t/ 

Mrs.  Fallon.    Sitting  beside  me  on  the  ass  car' 
coming  to  the  town,  so  quiet  and  so  respectable, 
and  treachery  like  that  in  his  heart! 

Bartley.  Is  it  your  wits  you  have  lost  or  is  it 
I  myself  that  have  lost  my  wits? 

Mrs.  Fallon.    And  it's  hard  I  earned  you,  slav- 
ing,   slaving — and    you   grumbling,    and    sighing, 
[1641 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

and  coughing,  and  discontented,  and  the  priest 
wore  out  anointing  you,  with  all  the  times  you 
threatened  to  die! 

Bartley.    Let  you  be  quiet  till  I  tell  you! 

Mrs.  Fallon.  You  to  bring  such  a  disgrace  into 
the  parish.    A  thing  that  was  never  heard  of  before! 

Bartley.  Will  you  shut  your  mouth  and  hear 
me  speaking? 

Mrs.  Fallon.  And  if  it  was  for  any  sort  of  a 
fine  handsome  woman,  but  for  a  little  fistful  of  a 
woman  like  Kitty  Keary,  that's  not  four  feet  high 
hardly,  and  not  three  teeth  in  her  head  unless  she 
got  new  ones!  May  God  reward  you,  Bartley 
Fallon,  for  the  black  treachery  in  your  heart  and 
the  wickedness  in  your  mind,  and  the  red  blood  of 

or  Jack  Smith  that  is  wet  upon  your  hand! 

[  Voice  of  Jack  Smith  heard  singing.] 
The  sea  shall  be  dry, 

The  earth  under  mourning  and  ban! 
Then  loud  shall  he  cry 

For  the  wife  of  the  red-haired  man! 

Bartley.  It's  Jack  Smith's  voice — I  never  knew 
a  ghost  to  sing  before — .  It  is  after  myself  and 
the  fork  he  is  coming!  [Goes  back.  Enter  Jack 
Smith.]  Let  one  of  you  give  him  the  fork  and  I 
will  be  clear  of  him  now  and  for  eternity! 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  us! 
Red  Jack  Smith!  The  man  that  was  going  to  be 
waked! 

James  Ryan.  Is  it  back  from  the  grave  you  are 
come? 

[165] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

Shawn  Early.  Is  it  alive  you  are,  or  is  it  dead 
you  are? 

Tim  Casey.    Is  it  yourself  at  all  that's  in  it? 

Mrs.  Tully.    Is  it  letting  on  you  were  to  be  dead? 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Dead  or  alive,  let  you  stop  Kitty 
Keary,  your  wife,  from  bringing  my  man  away 
with  her  to  America! 

Jack  Smith.  It  is  what  I  think,  the  wits  are 
gone  astray  on  the  whole  of  you.  What  would  my 
wife  want  bringing  Bartley  Fallon  to  America? 

Mrs.  Fallon.  To  leave  yourself,  and  to  get  quit 
of  you  she  wants,  Jack  Smith,  and  to  bring  him 
away  from  myself.  That's  what  the  two  of  them 
had  settled  together. 

Jack  Smith.  I'll  break  the  head  of  any  man 
that  says  that!  Who  is  it  says  it?  [To  Tim  Casey:] 
Was  it  you  said  it?  [To  Shawn  Early:]  Was  it 
you? 

All  together  [backing  and  shaking  their  heads]. 
It  wasn't  I  said  it! 

Jack  Smith.  Tell  me  the  name  of  any  man  that 
said  it! 

All  together  [pointing  to  Bartley].  It  was  him 
that  said  it! 

Jack  Smith*    Let  me  at  him  till  I  break  his  head! 

[Bartley  backs  in  terror.  Neighbours  hold  Jack 
Smith  back.] 

Jack  Smith  [trying  to  free  himself].  Let  me  at 
him!  Isn't  he  the  pleasant  sort  of  a  scarecrow 
for  any  woman  to  be  crossing  the  ocean  witl! 
It's  back  from  the  docks  of  New  York  he'd  be 
turned  [trying  to  rush  at  him  again],  with  a  lie  in 
[166] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

his  mouth  and  treachery  in  his  heart,  and  another 
man's  wife  by  his  side,  and  he  passing  her  off  as 
his  own!    Let  me  at  him  can't  you. 

[Makes  another  rush,  but  is  held  back.] 

Magistrate  [pointing  to  Jack  Smith].  Policeman, 
put  the  handcuffs  on  this  man.  I  see  it  all  now. 
A  case  of  false  impersonation,  a  conspiracy  to 
defeat  the  ends  of  justice.  There  was  a  case  in 
the  Andaman  Islands,  a  murderer  of  the  Mopsa 
tribe,  a  religious  enthusiast 

Policeman.    So  he  might  be,  too. 

Magistrate.  We  must  take  both  these  men  to 
the  scene  of  the  murder.  We  must  confront  them 
with  the  body  of  the  real  Jack  Smith. 

Jack  Smith.  I'll  break  the  head  of  any  man  that 
will  find  my  dead  body! 

Magistrate.  I'll  call  more  help  from  the  bar- 
racks.   [Blows  Policeman's  whistle.] 

Bartley.  It  is  what  I  am  thinking,  if  myself 
and  Jack  Smith  are  put  together  in  the  one  cell 
for  the  night,  the  handcuffs  will  be  taken  off  him, 
and  his  hands  will  be  free,  and  murder  will  be  done 
that  time  surely! 

Magistrate.    Come  on!    [They  turn  to  the  right.] 


1167] 


THE  TURTLE  DOVE 

BY 

Margaret  Scott  Oliver 


Reprinted  from  Six  One-Act  Plays  by  Margaret  Scott 
Oliver  through  the  courtesy  of  the  Author  and  Mr.  Richard  G. 
Badger,  Publisher,  Boston. 


[169 


CHARACTERS 

Chorus 

Chang-Sut-Yen,  son  of  Chang-won-yin,  the  Great, 
ruler  of  the  Province  of  Canton 
The  Mandarin 
Kwen-Lin,  His  daughter 
The  God  of  Fate 
The  Property  Man 
The  Gong-Bearer 


First  produced  April  6,  1915.  at  the  Masque  of  Primitive 
Peoples,  Horticultural  Hall,  Philadelphia. 

Copyright,  1916,  by  Margaret  Scott  Oliver. 

Permission  for  amateur  or  professional  performances  of  any 
kind  must  be  obtained  from  the  author,  who  may  be  addressed 
at  Oliver  Oaks,  Moylan-Rose  Valley,  Pennsylvania. 


[170] 


THE  TURTLE  DOVE 

The  play  is  acted  in  the  Chinese  manner,  without 
stage  setting.  The  back  drop  is  painted  to  represent 
a  Willow  plate.  Chorus  is  present  at  the  left  side 
of  the  stage  throughout  the  action,  to  explain  the  story, 
announce  the  characters  as  they  appear,  and  thank 
the  audience  for  its  interest.  The  Property  Man,  in 
a  black  costume,  remains  at  the  back  of  the  stage.  At 
various  specified  times,  he  hands  the  necessary  prop- 
erties to  the  several  characters,  from  a  small  box 
beside  him.  When  not  occupied  with  stage  work, 
he  spends  the  time  reading  a  Chinese  paper,  and 
smoking  a  pipe  or  a  cigarette. 

All  the  persons  in  the  play  are  in  blue  and  white 
costumes,  to  make  the  plate  picture.  The  Gong- 
bearer  may  be  in  royal  yellow,  and  Chorus  in  emer- 
ald green. 

The  Curtain  is  drawn  slightly  open,  and  the  Gong- 
bearer  appears,  strikes  the  gong  three  times  very 
slowly  and  ten  times  rapidly,  then  walks  to  the  right 
side  of  the  stage,  and  stands  there  throughout  the 
play.  Chorus  appears  between  the  parted  curtains, 
holds  up  his  left  hand  while  the  Gong-bearer  strikes 
once,  then  addresses  the  audience  in  a  very  suave 
manner.  ..._.———— «— —  •■  •"'***" 

Chorus.  Most  illustrious  friends,  I  deliver  the 
three  bows  to  Heaven,  Earth,  and  Man,  [bows 
ceremoniously  to  right,  left,  and  center]  and  obtrude 
[1711 


THE  TURTLE  DOVE 

myself  on  your  exalted  vision  that  you  may  know 
the  meaning  of  our  poor  play.  The  story  deals  with 
the  always  new  love  of  youth  for  maid,  the  abrupt 
tempering  of  a  father's  wrath  to  forgiveness,  and 
the  immutability  of  Fate. 

Our  hero,  Chang-sut-yen,  [Chang-svt-ycn  appears 
between  the  curtains,  bows  to  right,  left  and  center, 
then  disappears  behind  the  curtains]  will  come  before 
you  as  a  servant,  but  in  reality  he  is  none  other 
than  the  son  of  Chang-won-yin,  the  Great,  ruler 
of  this  province  of  Canton.  [Gong-bearer  strikes 
the  gong.]  The  God  of  Fate  decreed  that  he  should 
be  known  as  a  turtle  dove,  and  have  his  image  for- 
ever emblazoned  on  the  shining  surface  of  a  Willow/ 
plate.  To  avert  this  calamitous  ending  to  his  august 
life,  Chang-sut-yen  has  fled  the  home  of  his  father, 
and  entered  the  service  of  a  rich  and  powerful 
Mandarin,  where  he  hopes,  by  virtue  of  his  obscure 
position,  to  escape  the  notice  of  the  God.  But,  as 
we  have  said,  Fate  is  immutable,  what  the  God  plans 
must  ever  be,  despite  the  efforts  of  puny  man. 

You  will  see  theJMandarin,  [Mandarin  appears, 
bows,  and  disappearsT^ich", '  proud,  majestic,  with 
eyes  for  everything  that  may  tend  to  make  him 
more  powerful,  but  superbly  blind  to  virtue  and 
worth  in  the  humble. 

Kwen-lin,  his  daughter  [  Kwen-lin  appears,  bows, 
and  retires]  is  swayed  by  love  alone;  a  dangerous 
practice  usually,  but  in  this  story,  one  begging  your 
approval.  Do  not  judge  her  harshly,  in  that  her 
heart  leads  her.  Remember  she  is  a  woman.  Much 
may  be  forgiven  women. 

[172] 


The  Property  Man  Waiting  to  be  Introduced 


THE  TURTLE  DOVE 

\/^  [The  Property  Man  appears,  bows,  and  looks 
inquiringly  at  Chorus,  who  hesitates  an  instant,  and 
then,  as  if  fulfilling  a  rather  unpleasant  duty,  pro- 
ceeds.] I  would  I  might  ignore  the  Property  Man. 
He  composed  a  version  of  this  poetic  tale,  putting 
in  all  the  ugly  truths,  and  serenely  forgetting  all 
the  possible  flower-like  episodes.  As  artists  we 
could  not  consider  it.  [Property  Man  with  a  slight 
shrug  leaves  stage.]  The  Property  Man  is  not  suf- 
ficiently large  minded  to  accept  our  ripe  jand  im- 
partial opinion.  He  is  superby  indifferent  to  the 
luminous  fruit  from  his  successful  rival's  quill, 
and  will  probably  sulk  through  his  duties.  That 
you  may  not  be  disturbed  by  his  presence,  we  have 
clothed  him  invisibly  in  black,  and  you  will  there- 
fore be  spared  the  pain  of  seeing  him  at  all. 

I  fear  I  have  kept  you  all  too  long  from  the  feast 
prepared  for  your  delectation.  If  my  brothers  be- 
hind the  curtain  show  not  that  histrionic  merit  you 
so  rightly  demand,  I  pray  you  be  lenient,  and  listen 
with  ears,  and  see  with  eyes,  not  too  critical.  I 
conduct  you  at  once  to  the  moon-lit  garden  of  the 
wealthy  Mandarin,  where  Chang-sut-yen  is  loiter- 
ing, hoping  to  meet  there  the  Mandarin's  beautiful 
daughter,  Kwen-lin,  who  smiles  on  him.  Is  it  not 
traditionally  the  fashion  of  women  to  adore  most 
that  youth  who  is  forbidden? 

I  bow  to  you  for  your  attentively  honorable  ears. 
I  bow.  I  bow.  [Gong-bearer  strikes  gong.  Chorus 
walks  to  left  of  stage,  and  curtains  are  pulled  apart, 
revealing  Chang-sut-yen  standing  before  the  back 
drop.] 

[174] 


THE  TURTLE  DOVE 

Chang-sut-yen  [singing].  Bor  lo  un  doy,  bor 
lo  un  doy,  chin  lo,  chin  lo,  bor  lo  un  doy.  Kwen-lin 
will  know  that  song.  It  is  nothing,  it  says  nothing, 
therefore  it  is  pregnant  with  meaning,  and  my 
Bright  Water-lily  will  understand.  [Singing] 
Bor  lo  un  doy,  bor  lo  un  doy,  chin  lo,  chin  lo,  bor 
lo  un  doy.  She  will  come,  dancing  like  sun-rays 
on  the  flowers  of  my  mind,  and  I  will  press  my 
honorable  lips  to  hers,  and  our  solemn  breaths  will 
mingle.  Though  I  seem  but  a  servant,  I  am  Chang- 
sut-yen,  son  of  Chang-won-yin,  the  Great,  ruler  of 
this  province.  [Gong-bearer  strikes  gong.]  I  am 
also  the  most  glorious  lover  the  Gods  have  made. 
My  soul  was  fashioned  from  the  wind  of  Heaven, 
and  the  purple  fire  of  the  mountain  peak.  My  illus- 
trious body  is  the  sturdy  tree  to  which  maidens 
will  ever  sigh  their  timid  love.  • 

Chorus.    It  is  the  Mandarin  who  walks  this  way. 

Chang-sut-yen  [singing].  Bor  lo  un  doy,  bor 
lo  un  doy,  chin  lo,  chin  lo,  bor  lo  un  doy, — who 
comes?  Alas,  not  Kwen-lin  the  fragrant,  but  my 
master.  He  will  spit  anger  that  I  linger  in  the 
garden.  I  must  summon  my  snake  tongue  to  puzzle 
his  cow-brain,  lest  he  suspect  I  wait  for  her.  I  will 
divest  myself  of  my  honorable  senses,  and  speak 
with  an  empty  head.  I  will  be  gloriously  fool  pos- 
sessed. [Singing]  Bor  lo  un  doy,  bor  lo  un  doy, 
chin  lo,  chin  lo,  bor  lo  un  doy. 

[Enter  Mandarin.] 

Mandarin.     The  night  is  full  of  chill.     If  the 
God  of  Frost  bites  his  sharp  teeth  into  my  fruit 
trees,  they  will  perish.    Br-r-r,  cold! 
[175] 


THE   TURTLE   DOVE 

Chang-sut-yen  [clasping  Mandarin  in  his  arms]. 
August  one,  the  white  moon  lady  slumbers  in  the 
chamber  of  Heaven,  while  I  wait  for  you  to  light 
the  path  of  my  dreams. 

Mandarin.    Ancestors,  save  me! 

Chang-sut-yen.  We  will  make  loud  prayers  to 
the  tablets  of  our  magnificently  worthy  ancestors 
after  we  embrace.  Let  me  pluck  you,  and  wear  you 
across  my  heart,  before  your  flower  beauty  fades. 

Mandarin  [recognizing  him].  Miserable  three 
footed  dog,  what  maiden  did  you  think  to  greet? 

Chang-sut-yen.  I  press  to  my  superb  breast 
only  your  lily  feet,  honorable  Cherry  Blossom. 

Mandarin.    I  am  no  Cherry  Blossom. 

Chang-sut-yen.  You  are  all  the  Cherry  Blossoms 
in  the  Garden  of  Earth,  shedding  perfume  and 
petals  with  every  sighing  breeze. 

Mandarin.  I  shed  nothing  but  the  light  of 
Truth  and  Justice. 

Chang-sut-yen.  My  heart  cracks  with  love  for 
you,  and  your  tasks.  At  night  when  sleep  seals  the 
minds  of  other  servants,  I  journey  forth  to  count 
again  your  dazzling  possessions.  Your  peach  trees 
bend  before  me,  and  I  am  blinded.  I  beg  to  work 
for  you  until  Death  sews  a  black  seam  in  my  brain, 
and  I  go  to  my  ancestors. 

Mandarin.  You  have  departed  your  unhappy 
wits.  I  give  you  to-morrow  to  offer  gifts  to  the  gods. 
Pursue  sleep,  and  think  not  of  my  possessions,  but 
rather  of  your  venerable  poverty.  Your  august 
brain  is  not  large  enough  for  Death  to  waste  thread 
on.  Thread  is  costly.  Away  with  you,  and  rest, 
f  176 1 


Mandarin:  Away  with  you  and  rest 


THE  TURTLE  DOVE 

y.M 

Chang-sut-yen.  May  your  golden  finger  nails 
grow,  and  grow,  and  grow,  until  they  grasp  all 
wealth  and  honor.  [Singing]  Bor  lo  un  doy,  bor 
lo  un  doy,  chin  lo,  chin  h,  bor  lo  un  doy. 

[Exit  Chang,  singing.] 
Sr  Mandarin.  He  is  a  faithful  dog,  who  begs  but 
a  kick  to  make  him  lick  my  hand.  I  have  given 
him  too  many  tasks.  He  is  bereft  of  his  toad  mind. 
I  dislike  a  man  who  sings  as  he  works.  Life  does 
not  plan  it  so. 

Chorus.  Kwen-lin,  Bright  Water-lily,  comes 
to  meet  her  lover. 

[Enter  Kven-lin,  singing.  Property  Man  hands 
her  a  branch  of  blossoms.] 

Kwen-lin  [singing],  Bor  lo  un  doy,  bor  lo  un 
doy,  chin  lo,  chin  h,  bor  lo  un  doy. 

Mandarin.  The  mad  one  croaked  that.  [Turns 
back  and  sings]  Bor  lo  un  doy,  bor  lo  un  doy,  chin  lo, — 

Kwen-lin  [clasping  him].  Supreme  lover!  The 
happy  breezes  dance  when  your  voice  is  the  lute. 

Mandarin.  My  important  ears  to  be  so  assailed! 
The  world  box  collapses,  and  tumbles  round  me. 

Kwen-lin.    Noble  father!    I  thought  it  was  my — 

Mandarin.    Your? 

Kwen-lin^    My  Singing  Bird. 

Mandarin.  A  Cherry  Blossom,  and  a  Singing 
Bird!  An  illustrious  choice  for  a  man  of  high  posi- 
tion. 

Kwen-lin.    You  sound  very  like  a  singing  bird. 

Mandarin.  Something  has  broken  in  their 
heads.  Spring  has  tangled  the  brain  threads.  It 
must  be  Spring! 

[178] 


THE  TURTLE  DOVE 

Kwen-lin.  It  is  Spring,  and  soon  it  will  be  superb 
Summer,  then  Fall,  then  Winter.  The  year  gone 
pff!    like  that,  and  miserable  life  flower  desolated. 

Mandarin.  Before  the  honorable  year  goes  pff! 
like  that,  you  will  be  an  exalted  wife. 

Kwen-lin.    A  wife!    I,  a  wife? 

Mandarin.  For  seventeen  years  of  moons,  your 
nurses  and  teachers  have  polished  you  into  a  state 
of  passable  excellence.  You  are  very  wonderful  as 
foolish  little  girls  go.  You  are  something  of  a  some- 
body. 

Kwen-lin.  But  to  what  impressive  man  are  my 
charms  to  be  presented? 

Mandarin  [looking  at  invisible  garden].  This  late 
frost  will  surely  steal  the  jewels  in  my  garden. 
The  servant  Chang  must  cover  the  iris.  I  can  trust 
Chang. 

Kwen-lin.    You  marry  me  to  Chang-sut-yen? 

Mandarin,  Do  I  throw  my  child  of  five  thou- 
sand and  ©ne  delectable  graces  into  the  arms  of  a 
servant?    I  was  speaking  of  my  garden. 

Kwen-lin.  If  I  am  to  wed,  let  us  speak  of  hus- 
bands. 

Mandarin.  Ah,  many  men  have  sought  to  wed 
you,  but  I  have  turned  their  eyes  away,  until  the 
sublime  one  should  ask. 

Kwen-lin.    To  whom  do  I  go? 

Mandarin.  To  the  greatest  of  all!  To  be  daz- 
zled, to  be  petted,  to  be  surrounded  by  every  supe- 
rior luxury. 

Kwen-lin    [impatiently].    To  whom  do  I  go? 

Mandarin.  There  is  honor  and  eminence  the 
[179] 


THE  TURTLE  DOVE 

alliance  will  give  me,  and  money  it  will  add  to  my 
already  considerable  store.  We  will  not,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  policy,  show  we  are  flattered.  We  will  be 
proud,  we  will  be  haughty,  we  will  drive  a  shrewd 
bargain  when  the  wealthy  Ta-yin  of  Canton  would 
make  you  his  bride. 

Kwen-lin.  The  Ta-yin  of  Canton!  I  will  not 
marry  the  Ta-yin  of  Canton! 

Mandarin.  What  strange  words  do  your  lips 
produce?  Does  my  daughter  oppose  her  insect 
mind  to  mine? 

Kwen-lin.  I  will  not  marry  the  Ta-yin  of  Can- 
ton.   He's  ugly,  he's  bold,  he's  yellow  as — 

Mandarin.    Gold! 

Kwen-lin.    He  shakes  when  he  walks — 

Mandarin.    He's  a — 

Kwen-lin.  Hundred  years  old!  My  heart 
would  crack  with  grief  were  I  to  marry  him. 

Mandarin.  I  never  yet  heard  that  any  maidea 
died  of  grief  at  the  prospect  of  being  a  bride. 

Kwen-lin;     Br-r-r-r! 

Mandarin  [jumping].    What  was  that? 

Kwen-lin.  My  heart  cracking.  Death  is  clutch- 
ing for  me. 

Mandarin  [wearily].  Go  away,  Death.  Take 
her,  if  you  must,  after  she  is  wed.  The  wealthy 
Ta-yin  can  better  bear  the  said  expenses. 

Kwen-lin.  I'm  dying  now,  dying,  dying.  It's 
quite  delicious!  [Lies  down.  Property  Man  puis 
a  blue  cushion  under  her  head.]    I'm  almost  dead! 

Mandarin.    You  can't  die  like  this.     It's  most 
absurd,  besides  being  unbeautiful. 
[180] 


THE  TURTLE  DOVE 

Kwen-lin.  Have  no  fear,  my  death  will  be 
magnificently  beautiful.  I  have  practiced  many 
times,  and  know. 

Mandarin.    Get  up,  fox  soul! 

Kwen-lin  [sitting  up].  Have  respect  for  my 
solemnly  departing  life.  My  heart  will  not  throb 
longer.    [Lies  down.]    I  am  dead! 

Mandarin  [prodding  her  with  foot].  Get  up,  get 
up,  get  up!  I  must  carry  her!  [Stoops,  and  puts 
arms  under  Kwen-lin.]  Oh,  for  the  strong  muscles 
of  my  lusty  young  arms.  We  have  fed  her  too 
well.  She  weighs  many  pounds.  [Stands  up,  and 
claps  hands.    Chnng-Rut-yen  enters^] 

Chang-sut-yen.  My  serene  mind  presents  it- 
self to  you,  great  master. 

Mandarin.  Sleep  should  be  gathering  up  the 
ends  of  your  serene  mind,  but  it  is  as  well.  My 
daughter's  honorable  body  has  persuaded  itself  to 
seek  its  illustrious  ancestors — 

Chang-sut-yen  [kneeling  beside  Kwen-lin].  Kwen- 
lin  dead,  dead!  Then  let  the  lady  moon  fall  from 
the  mighty  loft  of  Heaven,  and  burn  my  life  to 
ashes  of  wistaria! 

Mandarin.  Your  overwhelming  grief  at  my 
bereavement  becomes  a  servant,  but  let  not 
the  pockets  of  your  eyes  fill  with  tears.  Bear 
her  to  the  house.  She  shall  be  whipped  alive! 
[  Kwen-lin  shudders.]  The  sublime  wasp  shakes  at 
that? 

Chang-sut-yen  [bending  over  Kwen-lin,  and  look- 
ing into  her  wide  open  eyes].  It  was  a  death  throe, 
exalted  one. 

[181] 


THE  TURTLE  DOVE 

Mandarin.    Can  your  arms  support  her? 

Chang-sut-yen.  I  lift  a  Cherry  Blossom  with 
more  effort. 

Mandarin.  Speak  not  of  Cherry  Blossoms. 
Pick  her  up.  [Chang  starts  to  lift  Kwen-lin.]  No, 
no,  that  is  not  wise.    How  shall  we  do  it? 

Chang-sut-yen  [craftily].  I  can  guard  the  crys- 
tal vase  of  her  departed  soul,  while  you  go  for 
help. 

Mandarin.  It  had  not  penetrated  my  disturbed 
brain.    I  go  for  help.    [Exit  Mandarin.] 

Kwen-lin  [sitting  up].    Superb  love  mate! 

Chang-sut-yen  [hurriedly].  Augustly  enter  the 
world  of  the  venerable  dead  again,  luscious  one, 
your  honorable  father  looks  this  way. 

Kwen-lin  [lying  down].  Do  your  eyes  grow  pearls 
that  I  am  with  my  ancestors? 

Chang-sut-yen.  The  love  butterflies  are  wing- 
ing in  the  happy  recesses  of  my  heart.  My  breath 
will  smother  me  with  joy. 

Kwen-lin  [sitting  up].  Joy,  when  my  father  is 
going  to  marry  me  to  the  Ta-yin  of  Canton? 

Chang-sut-yen.  Exalted  joy,  because  before 
that  can  happen  my  father  will  have  the  Ta-yin 
beheaded. 

Kwen-lin.    An  orphan  has  no  father. 

Chang-sut-yen.  I  have  a  celestial  now  and  then 
father,  who  does  these  necessary  but  disagreeable 
things.  I  think  he  will  dispose  of  the  wealthy 
Ta-yin  if  I  ask  him. 

Kwen-lin.  It  must  be  a  wonderful  convenience. 
We  will  make  a  list  of  all  those  superbly  annoying 
[182] 


THE  TURTLE  DOVE 

persons  we  do  not  like,  and  have  your  celestial  now 
and  then  father  behead  them. 

Chang-sut-yen.  We  will  ponder  it,  Bright 
Water-lily,  when  we  are  not  serenely  happy. 

Kwen-lin.  I  do  not  like  being  whipped  alive! 
My  teeth  chatter  when  I  think  of  it,  and  I  can't 
be  happy. 

Chang-sut-yen.  A  base  whip  to  touch  you! 
Nay,  my  lips  shall  make  you  live.  [Kisses  her.]  I 
am  gloriously  versed  in  lip  magic.  [Kisses  her 
again.] 

Kwen-lin.  Let  us  fly  on  our  illustrious  legs,  and 
be  married  with  the  six  ceremonies,  before  my  father 
returns.  I  like  that  lip  magic.  It  makes  singing 
here. 

[Kwen-lin  touches  heart.  She  and  Chang-sut-yen 
exeunt.  The  Property  Man  looks  around  the  stage 
slowly,  glances  in  the  property  box,  then  saunters 
casually  off.] 

[CURTAIN] 


Chorus.    I  bow. 

[Chorus  leaves  stage  followed  by  Gong-bearer.] 


[183 


THE  TURTLE  DOVE 


Scene  II 

[Chorus  again  appears  before  the  closed  curtains, 
and  raises  his  left  hand,  while  the  Gong-bearer,  who 
has  walked  to  his  original  position  at  the  right  side 
of  the  stage  strikes  the  gong  once.] 

Chorus.  Many  perfumed  months  have  passed 
since  Chang-sut-yen  wedded  Kwen-lin,  and  each 
has  added  a  white  hibiscus  blossom  to  the  garland  of 
lite*  But  now  bitter  winter  comes,  snow  is  on  the 
paeony  hill,  the  hosts  of  evil  are  abroad.  The 
Mandarin,  with  never  ending  rage,  has  spent  the 
months  searching  throughout  the  Empire  to  dis- 
cover their  dwelling  place.  Now  he  has  learned 
where  it  is,  and  pursues  Chang-sut-yen  with  a  death 
dealing  thong,  which  he  will  wield  with  dire  results. 
It  is  the  pleasure  of  the  illustrious  author  that  the 
villain  act  in  a  supremely  unpleasant  manner,  in 
order  to  bring  out  the  tenderness  of  the  play.  Our 
lovers,  not  knowing  this  is  a  comedy,  (and  there- 
fore must  conclude  with  smiles  and  feasting),  are 
overwhelmed  with  fear.  I  beg  you  not  to  share  this 
fear,  except  inasmuch  as  it  may  make  the  after 
enjoyment  of  the  happy  ending  more  piquant  and 
superbly  satisfying. 

I  bow  to  you,  and  conduct  you  to  the  home  of 
Chang-sut-yen,  and  Kwen-lin,  his  wife. 

[Gong-bearer  strikes  gong.  Chorus  walks  to  his 
place  at  the  left  of  stage.  The  Curtains  are  drawn 
apart,  and  reveal  Chang-sut-yen,  and  Kwen-lin. 
The  Property  Man  is  at  the  back  of  the  stage,  as 
before.] 

r  i84i 


THE  TURTLE  DOVE 

Kwen-lin.  Is  my  august  father  yet  stamping  on 
the  road?  Peep  out  of  the  door,  heroic  one,  and 
show  but  part  of  one  eye,  lest  the  radiance  from 
both  light  the  world  like  stars,  and  he  swoop  upon 
us. 

Chang-sut-yen  [looking  out  of  imaginary  door- 
way].   I  see  not  his  angry  body. 

Kwen-lin.  I  would  not  face  him  here.  Let  us 
go  outside,  and  sit  neath  the  eaves  of  the  pagoda. 
He  may  miss  our  presence,  and  leave  without  shat- 
tering this  temple  of  our  love  dreams. 

[Property  Man  opens  invisible  door,  they  descend 
two  steps  and  sit  down,  and  Property  Man  closes  the 
door.] 

Chang-sut-yen.  Little  humming  bird,  your 
heart  wmgs  beat  wildly  against  my  solemn 
breast. 

Kwen-lin.  His  fiery  breath  will  wither  our 
blood.  ■  Feel  how  it  scorches  the  gray  veil  of  night. 
He  is  coming  to  consume  us,  he  is  coming  to  con- 
sume us!    I  fear  his  terrible  rage. 

Chang-sut-yen.     Nay,  tremble  not,  for  I,  your 
lover,  shelter  you  in  my  heart. 
^"Chorus.    The  Mandarin  comes. 

Kwen-lin  [sadly].  The  wine  cup  is  drained,  the 
love  songs  all  are  silenced. 

[Enter  Mandarin.] 

Mandarin.  Base  thief  and  destroyer,  at  last  I 
have  found  the  hole  in  which  you  hide! 

Chang-sut-yen.  A  lover  seeks  only  food  for 
his  love.  If  he  destroys  or  thieves  what  matter? 
Love  is  first. 

[1851 


THE  TURTLE  DOVE 


K WEN-LIN :  Peep  out  of  the  door,  heroic  one 

Mandarin.     My  tongue  sends  flame  into  your 
viper  soul.    Go  to  your  ancestors,  they  beckon  you. 

Kwen-lin.     Let  us  escape  across  the  bridge! 

[Property    Man   holds  bamboo  stick   horizontally 
for  bridge.] 

[1861 


THE  TURTLE  DOVE 

Chang-sut-yen.    Why  should  we  flee? 

Kwen-lin.  Why  should  we  perish?  To  the 
bridge!    We  will  outrun  him. 

[They  run  onto  bridge.] 

Chang-sut-yen  [grasping  bamboo].  The  bridge 
shakes.  Its  ribs  are  rotten.  We  will  fall  into  the 
water. 

Kwen-lin  [off  stage].    I  fall,  I  drown! 

Chang-sut-yen.  Bright  Water-lily,  float  upon 
the  water's  face. 

Mandarin.  ""I  pull  down  your  star  from  Heaven's 
dome. 

Chang-sut-yen.  My  star  dropped  to  Earth, 
when  the  light  of  hers  failed. 

[Property  Man  hands  whip  to  Mandarin.] 

Mandarin.  I  strike  with  my  exalted  whip.  By 
the  God  of  Fate,  you  die! 

[Strikes  Chang  with  whip.  Chang  falls.  Gong- 
bearer  strikes  gong.  The  God  of  Fate,  wearing  gro- 
tesque mask,  enters.] 

Fate.    Who  calls  me  to  the  world  of  men? 

Mandarin.    What  unknown  fear  are  you? 

Fate.    I  am  the  God  of  Fate. 

Mandarin.  I  have  sent  a  dog  to  death.  [Stoops 
and  takes  a  small  red  bag  from  Chang1  s  breast.] 

Fate.    Chang-sut-yen  is  mine!    He  must  not  die. 

Mandarin.  My  exulting  mind  does  not  record 
your  meaning. 

Fate  [stooping  over  Chang,  and  putting  the  red 
bag  back].  Chang-sut-yen,  son  of  Chang- won-yin, 
the  Great,  I  give  you  back  your  heart!  [Gong- 
bearer  strikes  gong.] 

[187] 


THE  TURTLE  DOVE 

Mandarin.  Chang-sut-yen,  son  of  Heaven!  I 
bow  in  the  dust  three  times.     [Prostrates  himself.] 

Fate  [to  Chang].  Arise,  and  continue  your  ex- 
alted life. 

Chang-sut-yen  [rising].  My  path  is  lost  in 
crookedness  until  I  join  her.    Let  me  go. 

Fate.  The  gods  have  not  yet  dried  the  ink  on 
the  pages  of  your  book  of  life.  You  must  live,  to 
live  upon  a  Willow  plate. 

Chang-sut-yen.  And  be  broken  by  the  heavy 
hand  of  august  Time,  and  unkind  Chance.  [Prop- 
erty Man  hands  knife  to  Chang.]  With  this  frosty 
blade,  I  cut  the  circle  of  life,  and  press  my  lips  to 
the  jade  cup  of  nothingness.  I  am  a  lover  bereft 
of  my  mate. 

Fate.  You  must  live!  [Touches  Chang's  arm 
with  staff.  The  knife  falls  to  the  ground.  Prop- 
erty  Man  picks  it  up,  and  puts  it  back  in  the  prop- 
erty box.] 

Chang-sut-yen.  Kwen-lin,  I  leap  across  the 
river  of  Heaven  to  your  arms! 

Fate.  She  is  not  dead.  She  dreams,  and  smiles 
upon  the  bosom  of  the  water. 

[To  Kwen-lin]    Awake!    Awake! 

[  Kwen-lin  enters,  and  goes  to  Chang.] 

Fate.  Your  sublime  father,  Chang-won-yin,  has 
gone  to  his  ancestors.  You  are  Chang-sut-yen,  the 
Great,  ruler  of  this  province. 

[Gong-bearer  strikes  gong.] 

Chang-sut-yen.  I  renounce  my  rule.  I  am  a 
lover,  not  a  ruler. 

Fate.  You  are  a  turtle  dove.  [To  Mandarin], 
[188] 


THE  TURTLE  DOVE 

To  your  home,  and  set  forth  majestic  feasting. 
Chang-sut-yen  will  honor  your  house.     He  rules. 

Chang-sut-yen.    I  rule  not.    I  am  a  lover. 

Kwen-lin.    Exalted  one,  a  lover  is  a  turtle  dove. 

Fate.  It  is  sometimes  given  to  women  to  know 
the  truth.  Thus  Fate  is  fulfilled,  and  Chang-sut- 
yen,  the  turtle  dove,  will  live  upon  a  Willow  plate. 

[Gong-bearer  strikes  the  gong  twice.] 

[CURTAIN] 

Chorus.  For  your  eager  ears,  for  your  shining 
eyes,  for  your  smiling  faces,  I  bow,  I  bow,  I  bow. 

[Chorus  followed  by  the  Gong-bearer  goes  behind 
the  curtains.] 


189 


ALLISON'S  LAD 

BY 

Beulah  Marie  Ddc 


Reprinted,  from  Allison's  Lad  and  Other  Martial  Inter' 
hides,  by  Beulah  Marie  Dix,  through  the  courtesy  of  the 
Author  and  Messrs.  Henry  Holt  and  Company,  New  York. 


[191] 


THE  PEOPLE 

Colonel  Sir  William  Strickland  ' 

Captain  George  Bowyer  of  the 

Lieutenant  Robert  Goring  Cavalier 

Francis  Hopton  1  gentlemen  party 

Tom  Winwood    J  volunteers 

Colonel  John  Drummond,  of  the  Roundhead  party 

THE  PLACE 

The  village  of  Faringford,  in  the  western  midlands 
of  England 

THE  PERIOD 

The  close  of  the  Second  Civil  War, 
autumn,  1648 


Copyright,  1910,  by  Henry  Holt  and  Company. 

No  amateur  or  professional  performance  of  any  kind  may 
be  given  except  with  the  author's  permission  and  upon  the 
payment  of  royalty.  For  particulars  address  the  author  in 
the  care  of  the  publishers,  or  at  2026  Argyle  Avenue,  Holly- 
wood, California. 


192 


f 


ALLISON'S  LAD 

It  is  midnight  of  a  cheerless  autumn  day,  with  a 
drizzle  of  slow  rain.  In  an  upper  chamber  of  the 
village  inn  of  Faringford,  lit  by  guttering  candles 
and  a  low  fire  that  smolders  on  the  hearth,  are  gath- 
ered five  gentlemen  of  the  Cavalier  party,  made  pris- 
oners that  morning  in  a  disastrous  skirmish. 

In  a  great  arm-chair  by  the  hearth  [at  stage  left] 
sits  their  leader,  Sir  William  Strickland.  He  is  a 
tall,  keen  man  of  middle  age,  of  the  finest  type  of 
his  party,  a  gallant  officer  and  a  high-souled  gentle- 
man. He  has  received  a  dangerous  wound  in  the 
side,  which  has  been  but  hastily  dressed,  and  he 
now  leans  heavily  in  his  chair,  with  eyes  closed,  al- 
most oblivious  of  what  goes  on  about  him. 

His  captain,  and  friend  of  long  standing,  George 
BowyerAa  sanguine,  stalwart  gentleman  of  Strick- 
land's  own  years,  has  planted  himself  in  the  center 
of  the  room\  where  he  is  philosophically  smoking  at  a 
long  pipe,  while  he  watches  the  play  at  the  rude  table, 
which  stands  at  the  [stage]  right. 

Round  the  table,  on  rough  stools,  Goring,  Hopton, 
and  Winwood  sit  dicing  and  smoking,  with  a  jug  of 
ale  between  them  for  the  cheering  of  their  captivity. 
Goring  is  a  swaggering  young  soldier  of  fortune; 
Hopton,  a  gentleman  of  the  Temple,  turned  soldier, 
with  something  of  the  city  fop  still  to  be  traced  in  his 
bearing.  He  has  been  wounded,  and  bears  about  his 
f  193] 


ALLISON'S  LAD 

forehead  a  blood-flecked  bandage.  Winwood,  the 
third  gamester,  is  a  mere  lad  of  seventeen,  smooth- 
faced, comely,  with  a  gallant  carriage. 

It  is  to  be  noted  that  the  men  play  but  half-heartedly. 
Indeed,  the  cheerlessness  of  the  midnight  hour,  in  the 
dim  chamber,  with  the  rain  tapping  on  the  mullioned 
windows,  may  well  bring  home  to  them  the  dubious- 
ness of  their  captive  state  and  set  them  to  anxious 
question  of  what  the  dawn  may  have  in  store.  Goring, 
of  the  three  the  most  hardened  and  professionally  a 
soldier,  is  the  first  to  speak,  as  he  throws  the  dice. 

Goring.     Cinq  and  tray! 

Winwood.    The  main  is  yours,  Rob  Goring. 

Goring.  That's  a  brace  of  angels  you  owe  me, 
Frank  Hopton. 

Hopton.  Go  ask  them  of  the  scurvy  Roundhead 
had  the  stripping  of  my  pockets. 

Bowyer  [with  the  good-humored  contempt  of  the 
professional  for  the  amateur].  The  more  foor  you 
to  bear  gold  about  you  when  you  ride  into  a 
fight! 

Winwood.  A  devil  fly  off  with  the  money!  The 
rebels  have  taken  my  horse — a  plague  rot  them! 

Goring.  Faith,  I'd  care  not,  if  the  prick-eared 
brethren  had  not  got  me,  and  got  me  fast.  '  Tis 
your  throw,  Tom  Winwood. 

[Winwood  takes  the  dice-box,  but  pauses,  anxiously 
awaiting  an  answer  to  Hopton's  next  question.] 

Hopton.  What  think  you,  Captain  Bowyer? 
Are  they  like  to  admit  us  speedily  to  ransom? 

[Bowyer  shakes  his  head,  smiling,  half  indifferent.] 

Goring.  You're  swift  to  grumble,  Frank. 
[194] 


ALLISON'S   LAD 

You've  not  been  yet  ten  hours  a  prisoner.  Throw, 
Tom,  a  wildfire  burn  you! 

Winwood.  There,  then!  And  vengeance  profit- 
able gaming!  We  can't  muster  four  farthings 
amongst  us. 

Goring.  Curse  it,  man,  we  play  for  love  and 
sport!  I've  never  yet  had  enough  of  casting  the 
dice.  Look  you,  [casts  the  dice]  I  better  you  by 
three. 

Winwood.  On  my  life,  no!  I  threw  a  tray  and 
quatre. 

Goring.  Go  to  with  your  jesting!  You  mean  a 
tray  and  deuce. 

Winwood.    Tray  and  quatre  I  threw. 

Goring  [starts  to  his  feet,  with  his  hand  leaping 
to  draw  the  sword  which,  as  a  prisoner,  he  no  longer 
wears].    Will  you  give  me  the  lie  in  my  teeth? 

Winwood  [pluckily  springs  to  his  feet,  with  the 
same  impulse].    Aye,  if  you  say  I  threw 

[At  the  sound  of  the  angry  voices  and  of  the  stools 
thrust  back,  Stnckland  opens  his  eyes  and  glances 
toward  the  brawlers.] 

Bowyer  [laying  a  heavy  hand  upon  a  shoulder  of 
each].  Hold  your  tongues,  you  shuttle-headed 
fools!    [Thrusts  Goring  down  into  his  seat.] 

Hop  ton.  You'll  rouse  the  Colonel,  and  he  ill  and 
wounded.     Sit  you  down  again! 

Winwood  [dropping  sullenly  into  his  place].  Yet 
'twas  a  tray  and  quatre. 

Goring.  Frank,  you  saw  the  cast.  A  tray  and 
deuce,  and  I  will  so  maintain  it. 

[The  three  at  table  talk  heatedly  in  dumb-show, 
[195] 


ALLISON'S  LAD 

Hopton  playing  the  peace-maker,  until  at  last  he 
wins  the  disputants  to  shake  hands.  Meantime 
Bowyer  has  gone  anxiously  to  Strickland's  side.] 

Bowyer.  How  is  it  with  you,  Will,  old  lad? 
Your  wound  is  easier? 

Strickland.  My  wound?  Tis  nothing,  I  tell 
you. 

Bowyer.  Why,  then,  take  heart!  Matters 
might  well  be  worse. 

[He  takes  a  candle  from  the  chimneypiecef  and 
relights  his  pipe.] 

Strickland.    Cold  comfort,  George! 

Bowyer.  We  are  defeated,  prisoners,  yes,  I 
grant  you.  Yet  we  have  fought  our  best.  And  for 
the  future — by  this  light,  our  enemies  have  used 
us  handsomely  so  far!  No  doubt  they'll  speedily 
accept  of  ransom. 

Strickland  [with  eyes  fixed  on  Winwood].  From 
my  heart  I  hope  so! 

Bowyer.  Aye,  to  be  taken  thus  in  his  first  fight, 
'tis  pity  for  little  Tom  Winwood. 

Strickland.    You  say 

Bowyer.  'Tis  of  the  lad  yonder  that  you  are 
thinking. 

Strickland.    Yes,  I  was  thinking  of  Allison's  lad. 

[As  the  result  of  Hopton' s  persuasion,  Winwood 
at  that  moment  is  most  heartily  drinking  a  health 
to  Goring.] 

Bowyer.     My  cousin  Allison's  boy.     Look  but 

upon  him  now!    A  half  minute  agone  he  and  Rob 

Goring  were  ready  to  fly  at  each  other's  throats, 

and    now    they    drink    good-fellowship    together. 

[196] 


ALLISON'S  LAD 

Faith,  by  times  young  Tom  is  monstrous  like  unto 
his  father. 

Strickland.  Your  pardon!  Tom  is  his  mother's 
son,  Allison's  lad,  every  inch  of  him — every  thought 
of  him.    There's  no  taint  of  the  father  in  the  boy. 

Bowyer.  Yes.  I  wonder  not  that  you  speak 
thus  of  Jack  Winwood.  'Twas  a  damnable  trick 
he  served  you,  when  he  won  Allison  from  you  with 
his  false  tales. 

Strickland.  Aye,  and  well-nigh  broke  her  heart 
thereafter  with  his  baseness.  You  stood  beside 
me,  George,  there  at  Edgehill,  when  we  looked 
upon  the  death-wound — in  his  back! 

Bowyer.  Poor  wretch!  Gallant  enough  at 
the  charge,  but  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  he'd 
no  more  courage  than 

Strickland.  He  was  a  coward,  and  false  from 
first  to  last.  For  God's  sake,  George,  never  say 
that  boy  is  like  his  father!    For  his  mother's  sake — 

Bowyer.  Aye,  'twould  go  near  to  killing  Allison, 
should  Tom  prove  craven. 

Strickland.  He'll  never  prove  craven.  He's 
his  mother's  son.  Let  be,  George!  I'm  in  no  mood 
for  speech. 

[Bowyer  goes  back  to  the  table,  where  Winwood, 
in  the  last  minutes,  has  played  with  notable  listless- 
ness  and  indifference.] 

Hopton.    'Tis  your  cast,  Tom. 

Winwood*    Nay,  but  I'm  done! 

Goring.     Will  you  give  over? 

Winwood.    But  for  a  moment.    My  pipe  is  out. 

[Rises,  and  goes  to  Strickland.] 
[197] 


ALLISON'S  LAD 

Hopton.  Come,  Captain!  In  good  time!  Bear 
a  hand  with  us. 

[Bowyer  sits  in  Winwood's  place  at  table,  and  dices.] 

Winwood.    You  called  me,  sir? 

Strickland.  I  did  not  call,  but  I  was  thinking  of 
you.    Sit  you  down! 

[Winwood  sits  on  a  stool  at  the  opposite  side  oj 
the  hearth,  and  cleans  and  fills  his  pipe.] 

I  watched  you  to-day,  Tom.  You  bore  yourself 
fairly  in  the  fight.    I  was  blithe  to  see  it. 

Winwood.  God  willing,  you'll  see  better  in  the 
next  fight,  sir. 

Strickland.  Go  to!  You  did  all  that  might  be 
asked  of  a  youth  for  the  first  time  under  fire. 

Winwood.  Ah,  but  'twas  my  second  time  under 
fire,  sir. 

Strickland.    Second  time?    How's  that,  my  boy? 

Winwood.  Last  June,  faith,  I  was  at  Bletching- 
ley  when  we  held  the  house  four  hours  against  the 
rebels,  my  school-fellow,  Lord  Bletchingley,  and  I, 
and  the  servants.  I  came  by  a  nick  in  the  arm 
there.    I  still  have  the  scar  to  show. 

[Rises  eagerly,  and  puts  back  his  sleeve  to  show 
the  scar.] 

Strickland  [lightly].  'Twas  right  unfriendly  of 
you,  Tom,  to  keep  me  so  in  the  dark,  touching 
your  exploits. 

Winwood  [half  embarrassed  with  the  sense  of 
having  said  too  much,  turns  from  Strickland  and 
lights  his  pipe  with  the  candle  that  he  takes  from  the 
chimney-piece].  Truth,  sir,  I  was  shamed  to  speak 
to  you  of  Bletchingley. 

[198] 


ALLISON'S  LAD 

Strickland.    Shamed?    What  do  you  talk  of  ? 

Winwood.  Why,  our  fight  at  Bletchingley,  it 
must  seem  mere  child's  play  unto  you,  a  tried  sol- 
dier, my  father's  old  comrade. 

[He  speaks  the  word  "father  "  with  all  the  proper 
pride  that  a  son  should  show.] 

Strickland.  But  your  mother.  She  would  have 
been  proud  to  know  that  you  had  borne  you  well 
in  the  fight.    You  should  have  told  her,  Tom. 

Winwood  [in  swift  alarm].  Told  my  mother? 
Why,  sir,  she — she  would  have  been  troubled. 
Perchance  she  would  not  have  heard  to  my  going 
out  for  the  King  with  you,  because  of  Bletchingley. 

Strickland.    Why  because  of  Bletchingley? 

Winwood.  Why?  Well,  you  see,  sir — sure, 
'twas  there  I  had  this  wound. 

[Reseats  himself  on  the  stool  opposite  Strickland.] 

Strickland.  And  for  that  you  think  she  would 
have  kept  you  from  the  field?  Lad,  you  do  not 
altogether  know  your  mother.  [Bowyer,  at  the 
end  of  a  talk  in  dumb-show  with  Goring  and  Hopton, 
has  risen,  and  now  goes  out  at  the  single  door,  wide 
and  heavy,  thai  leads  from  the  chamber  (center,  back) 
to  the  outer  corridor.  At  the  sound  of  the  closing 
of  the  door,  Strickland  starts.]    What  was  that? 

Goring  [rises  and  salutes].  'Twas  Captain  Bow- 
yer, sir,  went  into  the  outer  room  to  speak  with 
the  sentries.    [Reseats  himself.] 

Hopton.  Heaven  send  he  get  them  to  talk!  I'd 
fain  know  what's  to  become  of  us. 

Goring  [stretching  himself].    Go  sleep,  like  a  wise 
man,  and  cease  your  fretting! 
[199] 


ALLISON'S  LAD 

[He  presently  rests  his  head  on  his  folded  arms, 
which  he  places  on  the  table,  and  goes  to  sleep.] 

Strickland.  Sound  advice,  Tom!  You  were 
best  take  it. 

Winwood  [smoking  throughout].  Sleep?  How 
can  I,  sir?  I  would  it  were  day.  I  hate  this  odd 
and  even  time  o'  night.  What  think  you  will  come 
of  us? 

Strickland.  What  matters  it,  boy?  We  have 
fought  our  fight,  and  you  bore  yourself  gallantly, 
Tom. 

Winwood.  Easy  to  do,  sir,  in  the  daylight,  with 
your  comrades  about  you,  but  this — this  waiting 
in  the  dark!  God!  I  would  it  were  day.  At  two 
in  the  morning  Fve  no  more  courage  than 

Strickland  [in  sharp  terror].  Tom!  Hold  your 
peace. 

[Bowyer  comes  again  into  the  room.  Hopton 
springs  eagerly  to  his  feet.] 

Hopton.    What  news,  Captain? 

Bowyer.  Bad.  They're  quitting  the  village 
this  same  hour. 

Goring.    A  retreat  by  night? 

[Rises  and  confers  in  dumb-show  with   Hopton.] 

Bowyer.  Your  wound  cannot  endure  this  hasty 
moving,  Will.  In  mere  humanity  they  must  let 
you  rest  here  at  the  inn.  You'll  give  them  your 
parole. 

Strickland.  You'll  talk  to  our  captors  of  paroles, 
after  so  many  paroles  have  been  broken  by  men 
that  are  a  shame  unto  our  party? 

Bowyer.  But  you  are  known  for  a  man  of  honor. 
[200] 


ALLISON'S  LAD 

And  by  happy  chance  the  colonel  in  command 
of  these  rebels  has  come  hither  within  the  hour.  He 
will  listen  to  me.  I  knew  him  of  old — one  John 
Drummond. 

Winwood.    Drummond! 

[His  hand  clenches  convulsively  upon  his  pipe, 
which  snaps  sharply  under  the  pressure.  Colonel 
Drummond  enters  the  room.  He  is  a  grave,  stern 
gentleman  of  middle  age,  in  military  dress,  with 
cuirass,  and  sword  at  side.  Winwood,  at  his  en- 
trance, shifts  his  position  so  that  his  back  is  toward 
him,  and  sits  thus,  with  head  bent  and  hands  tight 
clenched.] 

Bowyer.     In  good  time,   Colonel  Drummond! 

Drummond  [throughout  with  the  fine  dignity  of  a 
soldier  and  a  gentleman].  I  fear  not,  Captain. 
There  are  three  of  you  here  in  presence  with  whom 
I  must  have  a  word.  [Seats  himself  at  table.]  Lieu- 
tenant Goring! 

Goring  [with  some  swagger].    Well,  sir? 

Drummond.  At  Raglan  Castle  you  gave  your 
promise  never  again  to  bear  arms  against  the  Par- 
liament. Now  that  you  are  taken  with  arms  in 
your  hands,  have  you  aught  to  say  in  your  defense? 

Goring.  Before  I  gave  that  promise  to  your 
damned  usurping  Parliament,  I  swore  to  serve 
the  King.    I  keep  the  earlier  oath. 

Drummond.  And  for  that  you  will  answer  in 
this  hour.    Now  you,  Mr.  Hopton! 

Bowyer.    Frank  Hopton,  too? 

Drummond.  What  defense  is  yours  for  your 
breach  of  parole? 

[201] 


ALLISON'S  LAD 

Hopton.  It  was  forced  from  me.  A  forced 
promise,  faith,  'tis  void  in  the  courts  of  law. 

Drummond.  It  well  may  be,  but  not  in  a  court 
of  war. 

Strickland.  George!  Did  he  say  there  were — 
three  had  broken  faith? 

Drummond.  And  now  for  you,  Thomas  Win- 
wood! 

[Winwood  starts  to  his  feet,  but  does  not  face  Drum- 
mond.] 

Bowyer.    Tom!    Not  you! 

Drummond.  Last  June  at  Bletchingley,  you, 
sir,  gave  to  me  personally  your  word  of  honor  never 
again  to  take  up  arms 

Strickland  [rising,  for  the  moment  unwounded, 
with  all  his  strength].  Face  that  scoundrel!  Face 
him  and  tell  him  that  he  lies! 

Winwood  [unwillingly  turns  and  faces  Drummond, 
but  stammers  when  he  tries  to  speak].    I — I 

Strickland.    Speak  out! 

Drummond.    Well,  Mr.  Winwood? 

Strickland.  Answer!  The  truth!  The  truth! 
Have  you  broken  your  parole? 

Winwood  [desperately  at  bay,  with  his  back  to 
the  wall,  his  comely  young  face  for  the  moment  the 
face  of  his  coward  and  trickster  father].  God's 
death!  I've  done  no  more  than  a  hundred  others 
have  done.  They've  not  kept  faith  with  us,  the 
cursed  rebels.  Why  the  fiend's  name  should  we 
keep  faith  with  them?  It  was  a  forced  promise. 
And  the  King,  I  was  fain  to  serve  him,  as  my  father 

served  him,  like  my  father 

T2021 


ALLISON'S  LAD 

Strickland.     Like  your  father! 

[He  staggers  where  he  stands,  a  wounded  man,  a 
sick  man — mortally  sick  at  heart.]    Allison's  lad! 

Bowyer  [catching  Strickland  as  he  staggers].    Will! 

Strickland  [masters  himself  and  stands  erect].  Let 
be!  Colonel  Drummond,  I  ask  your  pardon  for 
my  words,  a  moment  since.  I  could  not  be- 
lieve— I  could  not  believe —  [He  sinks  upon  his 
chair.]  He  is  his  father's  son,  George!  His  father's 
son! 

Drummond.  Come  here,  Winwood!  [Heavily 
Winwood  goes  across  the  room  and  halts  by  the  table, 
but  throughout  he  keeps  his  dazed  and  miserable 
eyes  on  Strickland.]  You  realize  well,  the  three  of 
you,  that  by  the  breaking  of  your  paroles  you  have 
forfeited  your  lives  unto  the  Parliament. 

Hopton.    Our  lives!    You've  no  warrant 

Drummond  [laying  his  hand  upon  the  hilt  of  his 
sword].  I  have  good  warrant — here.  I  was  minded 
first  to  stand  the  three  of  you  against  the  wall  in 
the  court  below  and  have  you  shot,  in  the  presence 
of  your  misguided  followers. 

Bowyer.    Colonel  Drummond,  I  do  protest! 

Drummond.  You  waste  your  words,  sir.  This 
hour  I  purpose  to  give  a  lesson  to  all  the  promise- 
breakers  of  your  party. 

Goring.  You  purpose,  then,  to  butcher  us,  all 
three? 

Drummond.  Your  pardon!  Two  of  you  L  shall 
admit  to  mercy.     The  third 

Hopton.    Well!    Which  of  us  is  to  be  the  third? 

Drummond.  You  may  choose  by  lot  which  one 
[203] 


ALLISON'S  LAD 

of  you  shall  suffer.    You  have  dice  here.    Throw, 
and  he  who  throws  lowest 

Hopton  [with  a  burst  of  half  hysterical  laughter]. 
Heaven's  light,  Rob,  for  once  ye'll  have  enough 
of  casting  the  dice! 

Drummond.  Winwood,  you  are  the  youngest. 
You  shall  throw  first.     Winwood! 

[Winwood  stands  as  if  dazed,  his  eyes  still  on 
Strickland.] 

Goring.    Are  you  gone  deaf,  Tom  Winwood? 

Winwood  [thrusts  out  a  groping  hand].    I — I 

Give  me  the  dice! 

Hopton  [putting  the  dice-box  into  Winwood's 
hand].    Here!    Be  quick! 

[A  moment's  pause,  while  Winwood,  with  twitch- 
ing face,  shakes  the  box  and  shakes  again.] 

Goring.    For  God's  love,  throw! 

Winwood  [throws,  uncovers  dice,  and  averts  his 
eyes].    What  is  it?  ^ 

Drummond.  Seven  is  your  cast.  You,  Hopton! 
[Feverishly  Hopton  snatches  the  box,  shakes,  and 
casts  quickly.]    Eleven! 

Hopton  [almost  hysterically].  God  be  thanked 
for  good  luck!    God  be  thanked! 

Goring.  Damn  you!  Hold  your  tongue!  [Hop- 
ton  snatches  a  cup  from  the  table  and  drinks  thirstily. 
Goring  throws  and  holds  dice  for  a  moment  covered.] 
It's  between  us  now,  Tom! 

Winwood  [wiping  his  forehead  with  his  sleeve]. 
Yes.     [Goring  uncovers  the  dice.] 

Drummond.    Eight! 

Goring  [with  a  long  breath  of  relief].    AW 
[204] 


Winwood:  / —  / —  Give  me  the  dice 


ALLISONS  LAD 

Drummond  [rising\.  The  lot  has  fallen  upon  you, 
Mr.  Winwood. 

Winwood.    I  am — at  your  disposal,  sir. 

Drummond.  You  have  ten  minutes  in  which  to 
make  you  ready. 

Goring.    Ten  minutes! 

[Winwood  sinks  heavily  into  his  old  seat  at  table. 
Presently  he  draws  to  him  the  dice  and  box,  and 
mechanically  throws  again  and  again.] 

Bowyer  [intercepting  Drummond,  as  he  turns 
to  leave  the  room].  You  shall  listen  to  me,  Drum- 
mond.   The  boy's  my  kinsman.    He 

Drummond.      Stand    aside,    George    Bowyer! 

[  He  goes  out  of  the  room.] 

Bowyer  [following  Drummond  out].  Yet  you 
shall  listen!    Drummond!    Listen  to  me! 

Hopton.  But  'tis  mere  murder.  'Tis  against 
all  law. 

Goring.  Will  you  prattle  of  law  to  Cromwell's 
men?  [Comes  to  table  and  lays  a  hand  on  Win- 
wood's  shoulder.]  Tom,  lad,  I  would  we  could  help 
you. 

Winwood.  I've  thrown  the  double  six — twice. 
'Tis  monstrous  droll,  eh,  Rob?  Before — I  could 
throw  no  higher  than  seven — no  higher  than  seven! 

[His  voice  rises  higher  and  higher,  and  breaks 
into  shrill  laughter.] 

Goring.    Steady!    Steady,  lad! 

[Strickland  looks  up,  as  if  rousing  from  a  trance.] 

Hopton  [hastily  fills  a  cup  and  offers  it  to  Winwood]. 
Here,  Tom,  drink  this  down. 

Winwood  [snatches  the  cup  and  starts  to  drink, 
[206] 


ALLISON'S  LAD 

but  in  the  act  looks  up  and  reads  in  his  comrades* 
faces  the  fear  that  is  on  them,  that  he  is  about  to 
disgrace  the  colors  that  he  wears.     He  sets  down  the 

cup].    You-r-you  think Will  you — leave  me — 

for  these  minutes?    A'  God's  name,  let  me  be! 

[Hopton  and  Goring  draw  away  to  the  window 
and  stand  watching  Winwood  anxiously.  He  has 
taken  up  the  dice-box,  and  again  is  mechanically 
casting  the  dice.] 

Hopton.    How  will  he  bear  himself  yonder? 

Goring.    You  mean 


Hopton.    There  in  the  courtyard,  when  they 

Goring.    Speak  lower! 

Strickland  [rises  with  effort,  crosses,  and  lays 
his  hand  on  Winwood' s  shoulder].    Tom! 

Winwood  [starting  up,  furiously].  You're 
ashamed  of  me!  You're  ashamed!  Don't  pity 
me!    Let  me  be!    Curse  you,  let  me  be! 

Strickland  [sternly].    Tom!    Look  at  me! 

Winwood  [turns  defiantly,  meets  Strickland's 
eyes,  and  desperately  clings  to  him].  I  can't!  I 
can't!     If  they'll  wait  till  it's  light — but  now— 

in   the   dark Make  them  wait  till   morning! 

I  can't  bear  it!    I  can't  bear  it! 

Strickland.  Be  still!  You  must  face  it,  and  face 
it  gallantly. 

Winwood  [stands  erect,  fighting  hard  for  self- 
control].  Gallantly.  Yes.  My  father — he  died 
for  the  King.  I  musn't  disgrace  him.  I  must 
bear  myself  as  he  would  have  done.    I 

Strickland.  Don't  speak  of  him!  Think  on  your 
mother. 

[207] 


ALLISON'S  LAD 

Winwood.  Must  you  tell  her — why  they  shot 
me?  She  would  think  of  it — of  that  broken  prom- 
ise— as  a  woman  might.  God's  life!  Why  will 
you  judge  me  so?  My  father  would  have  under- 
stood. 

Strickland.  Yes.  He  would  have  understood 
you  well. 

Winwood.  What  do  you  mean?  I'm  a  coward 
— a  promise-breaker.  You  think  that.  But  my 
father — he  died  for  the  King.  He [In  Strick- 
land's face  he  reads  thai  of  which  in  all  these  years  he 
has  been  kepi  in  ignorance.]    How  did  my  father  die? 

Strickland.  Not  now,  Tom!  [Bowyer  comes 
again  into  the  room.] 

Winwood  [almost  beside  himself].  Answer  me! 
Answer  me!  Bowyer!  You're  my  cousin.  Tell 
me  the  truth!  As  God  sees  us!  How  did  my 
father  die?  How  did  my  father  live?  You  won't 
answer?  You've  lied!  You've  lied!  All  of  you 
you — all  these  years!  He  was  a  coward.  You  don't 
deny  it!  A  coward — a  false  coward — and  I'm  his 
son!    I'm  his  son! 

[Sinks  upon  a  stool,  by  the  table,  with  face  hidden, 
and  breaks  into  rending  sobs.] 

Bowyer,    Will!    Will!    You  can  bear  no  more. 

Strickland  [shakes  off  Bowyer's  arm  and  goes  to 
Winwood].  Stand  up!  Stand  up!  You  are  your 
mother's  son  as  well  as  his! 

Winwood  [rising  blindly,  as  if  Strickland's  voice 
alone  had  power  to  lift  him],    A  coward!    You  see. 

Like  him.  And  there  in  the  courtyard Ah,  God! 

I'll  break!    I'll  break! 

F208] 


ALLISON'S  LAD 

Strickland.  You  will  not.  For  her  sake — for  her 
blood  that  is  in  you — Allison's  lad! 

Winwood  [with  slow  comprehension].  You — 
loved    her! 

Strickland,  Yes.  And  love  that  part  of  her 
that  is  in  you.  And  know  that  you  will  bear  you 
well  unto  the  end. 

Winwood.   I'll— I'll It's  not  the  death.    It's 

not  that.     It's  the  moment — before  the  bullet 

God!    If  I  fail— if  I  fail 

Strickland.    You  will  not  fail. 

Winwood.  You  believe  that?  You  can  believe 
that  of  me? 

Strickland.     I  believe  that,  Tom. 

Bowyer.    Will!    The  ten  minutes  are  ended. 

Strickland.    So  soon!    So  soon! 

Bowyer.  Drummond  will  suffer  me  be  with  him 
to  the  last.    Come,  Tom,  my  lad! 

[Goes  up,  and  from  a  chair  beside  the  door  takes 
a  heavy  military  cloak — which  shall  thereafter  serve 
as  Winwood's  shroud.  He  holds  it  throughout  so 
that  Winwood  may  not  mark  it.] 

Winwood  [takes  his  hat,  and  turns  to  Goring  and 
Hopton,  with  a  pitiful  effort  at  jauntiness],  God 
be  wi'  you,  boys!  [Crosses,  and  holds  out  his  hand 
to  Strickland.]  Sir  William!  I'll— try.  But— 
can't  you  help  me?  Gan't  you  help  me 
when [Clings  to  Strickland's  hand.] 

Strickland.  I  can  help  you.  You  shall  bear  you 
as  becomes  her  son. 

Winwood.    Aye,  sir. 

Strickland.  And  I  shall  know  it.  God  keep  you! 
[209] 


ALLISON'S  LAD 

Win  wood  [faces  about,  to  Bowyer].  I  am  ready, 
sir.  [Goes  to  door,  and  on  the  threshold  wheels  and 
stands  at  salute.]  You  shall  have  news  of  me,  Sir 
William!  [Winwood  goes  out,  and  Bowyer,  with 
the  cloak,  follows  after  him.] 

Hopton.    What  did  he  mean? 

Goring.  He'll  die  bravely,  poor  lad,  I'll  swear 
to  that!  [Strickland  sways  slightly  where  he  stands.] 
Sir  William!  You're  near  to  swooning.  Sit  you 
down,  sir. 

Strickland.  I  pray  you,  gentlemen,  for  these 
moments  do  not  disturb  me. 

[Stands  upon  the  hearth,  erect,  steady,  and  very 


Hopton.  Truth,  the  man's  made  of  stone.  I 
thought  he  had  loved  poor  Winwood  as  his  own 
son. 

Goring.    Quiet,  will  you?    [Removes  his  hat.] 

Hopton.   What 

Goring.  Think  on  what's  happening  in  the  court- 
yard, man! 

[A  moment's  pause,  and  then  from  below,  in  the 
rainy  courtyard,  is  heard  the  report  of  a  muffled 
volley.] 

Hopton.     Hark! 

Strickland  [in  an  altered,  remote  voice].  Well 
done! 

Goring.    Grant  that  he  made  a  clean  ending! 

Strickland  [turns  slowly,  with  eyes  fixed  before 
him,  and  the  sudden  smile  of  one  who  greets  a  friend]. 
Tom!    Well  done,  Allison's  lad! 

[Pitches  forward.] 

[210] 


ALLISON'S  LAD 

Goring  [catching  Strickland  in  his  arms].  Sir 
William!    Help  here,  Frank! 

[They  place  Strickland  in  his  chair.  Goring  starts 
to  loosen  his  neck  gear.  Hopton  kneels  and  lays 
his  hand  on  Strickland's  heart.  On  the  moment 
Bowyer  comes  swiftly  into  the  room.] 

Bowyer.  Will!  Will!  The  lad  died  gallantly. 
He  went  as  if  a  strong  arm  were  round  him. 

Hopton  [lets  fall  the  hand  that  he  has  laid  on  Strick- 
land's heart.  Speaks  in  an  awe-struck  voice].  Per- 
haps there  was! 

Goring  [rises  erect  from  bending  over  Strickland]. 
Captain!     Sir  William 

[Bowyer  catches  the  note  in  Goring's  voice,  and 
removes  his  hat,  as  he  stands  looking  upon  what  he 
now  knows  to  be  the  dead  body  of  his  friend  and 
leader.] 

CURTAIN 


[211 J 


ULYSSES 


Scene  2,  Act  m,  of  "  Ulysses  " 

BY 

Stephen  Phillips 


Reprinted  from  Ulysses  by  Stephen  Phillips  through  the 
courtesy  of  Mrs.  Stephen  Phillips  and  The  Macmillan  Com- 
pany, Publishers,  New  York  and  London. 


[213] 


CHARACTERS 
in  the  selection 
Athene 
Ulysses 

Penelope,  his  wife 
Telemachus,  his  son 
Eurycleia,  his  old  nurse 
Antinous  (young,  insolent,  splendid)      ]  Chief 
Eurymachus  (mature,  politic,  specious)     Suitors  to 
Ctesippus  (elderly,  rich,  ridiculous)         J  Penelope 
Phemius,  a  minstrel 
EuMiEUS,  a  swineherd 
Melantho  " 

Clytie  handmaidens 

Chloris 

Suitors,  Handmaidens,  Attendants 


Copyright,  1902,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 

Permission  for  amateur  or  professional  performance  of  any 
kind  must  be  secured  from  Mrs.  Stephen  Phillips,  who  may  be 
addressed  in  care  of  The  Macmillan  Company. 


[214] 


ULYSSES 

Act   III 

Scene  2 

Interior  of  the  banqueting-hall  in  Ulysses1  palace. 
The  walls  richly  decorated  and  encrusted  with  colored 
patterns,  bosses  and  friezes  of  animals,  etc.  Two 
columns  plated  with  bronze  sustain  the  roof,  the  cen- 
tra^part  of  which  is  raised  so  as  to  admit  the  light. 
Ori  a  wall  hang  the  three  spears  and  three  shields  as 
oraared  by  Ulysses,1  and  in  another  place  his  bow 
in  a  richly-decorated  case.  The  haU  is  lighted  by 
Ic  ps  held  by  Attendants.  The  main  entrance  from 
without  is  through  a  doorway  with  a  raised  threshold 
in  the  center  of  the  stage  at  the  back:  this  door  stands 
open  to  the  vestibule  and  the  moonlight:  a  staircase 
on  the  left  leads  up  to  another  door  opening  into  the 
women1  s  apartments.  A  dais  extends  along  the  back 
of  the  hall:  on  this  and  on  the  floor  to  right  and  left 
are  disposed  the  tables  and  couches  where  the  Suitors 
are  discovered  revelling,  with  the  faithless  Hand- 
maidens interspersed  among  them  and  drinking 
from  their  cups,  and  Attendants  standing  by  and 
serving.  Telemachus  sits  at  the  head  of  one  of  the 
tables.  In  the  center  of  the  hall  is  an  open  space, 
with  a  fire  burning  on  the  hearth  in  the  midst,  and 
beside  it  the  chairs  of  Penelope  and  the  Minstrel, 
1  See  the  notes  on  page  241. 
[215] 


ULYSSES 

the  former  unoccupied.     Phemius  the  Minstrel  is 
seated  in  his  chair  by  the  hearth,  singing — 

Great  is  he  who  fused  the  might 
Of  the  earth  and  sun  and  rain 
Into  draughts  of  purple  light, 

Draughts  that  fire  the  heart  and  brain: 
Let  us  praise  him  when  the  goblets  flash  in  light 
And  the  rapture  of  the  revel  fills  the  brain. 

What  were  revel  without  wine? 

What  were  wine  without  a  song? 
Let  us  hymn  the  gift  divine 
With  a  music  wild  and  strong, 
With  a  shouting  for  the  god  who  gave  the  wine, 
And  a  guerdon  to  the  minstrel  for  his  song. 

Blest  is  he  who  strikes  the  lyre 
At  the  feast  where  princes  quaff: 

Higher  mounts  the  mirth  and  higher, 
Loud  and  louder  peals  the  laugh — 

[Phemius  breaks  off  suddenly,  gazing  on  the 
Suitors  in  horror  while  a  dim  mist  comes  down  on 
the  hall  and  the  moonlight  is  obscured.] 

Antin.     What  ails  thee,  man? 
Eurym.    Why  dost  thou  stare  on  us? 
Phem.    O  wretched  men!    What  doom  is  coming 
on  ye? 
What  mist  is  this  that  overspreads  the  world? 
Shrouded  are  all  your  faces  in  black  night! 
[They  laugh  together  softly  and  sweetly.] 
[216] 


ULYSSES 

See  how  the  feast  is  dabbled  o'er  with  blood, 

And  all  your  eyes  rain  tears,  and  though  ye  laugh 

Sweetly  on  me,  ye  laugh  with  alien  lips! 

[Again  they  laugh  sweetly  upon  him.] 
And  a  voice  of  wailing  arises  and  all  the  walls 
Drip  fast  with  blood,  yea,  and  with  blood  the  roof! 

[They  laugh  again.] 
And  the  porch  is  full  and  full  is  the  court  of  ghosts 
And  spirits  hurrying  hell-ward  in  the  gloom, 
Yea,  and  the  light  hath  perished  out  of  heaven! 
Laugh  not  so  idly  on  me  with  your  lips, 
But  arise  and  flee!  your  doom  is  at  the  doors. 

[Phemius  hurries  out  of  the  hall.  The  mist  clears 
and  Ulysses  is  seen  standing  on  the  threshold  in 
the  central  doorway  unobserved  by  any.] 

Antin.    Madness  is  come  upon  him! 

Eurym.  O,  a  poet! 

Ctes.    He  hath  taken  from  me  all  desire  for  food. 
And  there!  is  that  blood  there?    Eurymachus! 
Am  I  not  rosy  and  round  as  ever  I  was? 

Eurym.    You  are,  Gtesippus. 

Ctes.  And  I  see  no  ghosts. 

Antin.    He  hath  drunk  overmuch:  hence  all  this 
mist  and  blood. 

Eum.  [to  Telemachus].    0  master,  see  you  that 
old  beggar  man? 
Say,  shall  I  put  him  from  the  door?    Out,  out! 

[With  exaggerated  roughness.] 

Ulys.  [coming  down  into  the  hall].    I  crave  a  word, 
sir,  with  Ulysses*  son. 
Which  is  he? 

Eum.  There! 

[2171 


Ulysses:  I  crave  a  word  with  Ulysses*  son 


ULYSSES 

Ulys.  [approaching  Telemachus  humbly]. 
Suffer  me,  sir,  a  word! 
I  bring  you  tidings  of  your  father. 

Telem.    [with  simulated  harshness].     O! 
The  old  tale! 

Ulys.  [cringingly].    Sir! 

Telem.  Out  with  thee! 

Eum.  Out! 

Telem.  Or  stay! 

Thou  shalt  have  leave  to  limp  from  guest  to  guest 
And  eat  what  thou  canst  beg.  As  for  your  tale, 
My  father  is  long  dead. 

Ulys.  Then  first  from  you 

I  beg  a  crust  of  bread,  or  sip  of  wine. 

Telem.    Here's  for  thee. 

[Tosses  him  bread.] 

Ulys.  Humbly,  sir,  I  thank  you. 

[He  passes  from  guest  to  guest.] 

A  Suitor.    Here. 

[Pushes  wine-cup  to  him.] 

Ctes.    My  appetite  is  fled:  take  what  you  will. 

Eurym.    Here  is  a  gristly  morsel  for  old  gums. 

Mel.  [to  AntinouSj  as  Ulysses  approaches], 

Antinous,   keep  the  old  man  far  from  me! 
He'll  soil  this  robe;  and  hath  a  smell  of  swine. 

Ulys.    I  would  not  soil  you,  lady;  but  you,  sir— 

Antin.    You  louting  beggar,  I  have  nought  for 
you! 
From  me! 

[He  strikes  him  on  the  mouth.] 

Eurym.    He  stood  thy  buffet  like  a  rock! 

Ulys.    O  my  deep  soul,  endure! 
[219] 


ULYSSES 

Telem.    [starting  up].  Antinous, 

I'll  have  no  beggar  struck  within  my  halls! 

Antin.     Oho!  And  did  I  strike  one  of  thy  blood 
Or  of  thy  guests?    Thou  filthy  beggar,  off! 
[Strikes  him  again.] 
Ulys.     Athene,  patience! 

Eum.  All  my  blood  boils  up. 

[  Throws  log  savagely  on  fire.] 
Ulys.  [coming  near  to  Antinous].    0  noble  sir,  of 
all  who  feast  around, 
Tall  men  and  fair,  thou  art  the  fairest  far, 
And  splendid  in  thy  youth  and  in  thy  strength. 
But  I  am  old  and  many  have  I  seen 
So  fair,  so  strong,  fallen  into  misery. 
Princes  whom  in  their  pride  the  gods  laid  low. 
Remember  in  thy  strength  the  evil  days. 

Antin.    [starting   up].    This   dismal   beggar   I'll 
endure  no  more, 
Who  gibbers  at  the  feast  of  evil  days. 
Away  with  him  or  I  will  hurl  him  forth. 

Ctes.     A  sad  feast  this — the  minstrel  first  sees 
blood: 
And  now  this  beggar  croaks  to  us  of  age. 
Clyt    Since  he  came  in  we  are  all  grown  miserable. 
Mel.    Sirs,  drive  him  forth,  that  we  may  laugh 

again. 
Suitors  [rising  from  the  tables].    Out  with  the  old 

crow!  cast  him  out:  away! 
[  They  come  round  Ulysses  and  hustle  him  to  the  door.] 
Telem.    I  say  the  old  man  shall  not  be  thrust 

forth. 
[Aside  to  Ulysses]    Is  it  now,  father,  is  it  now? 
[220] 


ULYSSES 

Eum.  When,  when? 

Suitors  [hustling    Ulysses],    Out  with  him! 

Handmaids.  Spit  on  him! 

Suitors.  Unloose  the  dogs! 

Ctes.  [interposing].    A  word,  a  word!  thy  mother 
still  delays: 
Let  us  beguile  the  time;  leave  him  to  me, 
And  we'll  wring  laughter  from  this  kill-joy  yet. 

[To  Ulysses  with  mock  deference] 
Give  me  your  hand,  old  man! 

[  To  Suitors]  These  beggars  all 

Were  princes  once.     Now  hearken!     Sir,   I  see 
Behind  these  rags  and  filth  what  man  thou  art. 
Tell  us — and  now  I  look  on  thee  I  mark 
A  something  noble  in  thy  air — thou  hadst 
A  palace  once,  and  riches,  hadst  thou  not? 

Ulys.     A  palace  and  great  riches  had  I  once. 

[General  laughter.] 

Ctes.  [to  Suitors].    What  said  I?     Yet  in  rags 
the  great  are  known. 
Wast  thou  not  in  old  days  thyself  a  king? 

Ulys.    In  the  old  days  I  was  myself  a  king. 

[All  laugh  heartily.] 

Ctes.  [to  Suitors].    Hush! 

[To    Ulysses]     Look  around;  even  such  a  hall 
hadst  thou. 

Ulys.  [gazing  slowly  around].     Once  did  I  feast 
in  some  such  hall  as  this. 

Ctes.    Not  by  thine  own  fault  (ah!  I  know  it  well) 
But  by  some  anger  of  the  gods  thou  art  fallen. 

Ulys.    The  gods,  the  gods  have  brought  me  to 
this  pass. 

[221] 


ULYSSES 

Antin.    Impudent  liar! 

Ctes.  And  thou  didst  leave  behind 

A  wife  most  beautiful,  a  queen  of  women! 
Telem.    How  long  will  he  endure? 
Eum.  O  for  a  blow! 

Mel.    He  is  grown  cautious,  he'll  not  speak  to 

that. 
Clyt.    His  wife!    Some  addled  hag  that  tendeth 

swine! 
Mel.    Was  woman  found  to  mate  her  with  such 

mud? 
Telem.    His  spirit  is  dead  in  him. 
Eum.  Thou  art  broken  at  last! 

Clyt     He  speaks  not!    See,  the  old  fooFs  eyes 

are  dim. 
Mel.  [with  mock  caress],    O  shall  I  kiss  thy  tears 

away,  my  love? 
Chlor.     Thy  wife  is  old:  wilt  thou  have  me, 

fair  youth? 
Clyt.     0   wouldst  thou   take  me,   bridegroom, 

to  thy  halls! 
Eurym.     Cease,   cease!     Ye  all  mistake.     He 

hath  come  here 
A  suitor  for  Penelope. 

Antin.    [throwing  cup  at  him].     Then  take  this 

gift  to  aid  thy  suit. 
A  Suitor  [throwing  a  bowl].    And  this. 
Ctes.    [throwing  a  scrap  from  the  feast].     And 

this. 
Others   [casting  things  upon  him].     And  here: 

and  here. 
Ctes.  Now  up  and  urge  thy  suit! 

[222] 


ULYSSES 

Telem.  [to  Eumceus].      Why  wait  a  word  that 

never  comes?     The  swords! 
Eum.     Stay,  stay:  he  looks  on  us,  and  his  eye 

burns. 

[Enter  Penelope  down  staircase  from  the  upper 
chambers;  she  walks  slowly  and  sadly  to  her  chair 
beside  the  hearth  in  the  center  of  the  room.] 

Suitors  [making  way  for  her  and  then  gathering 
to  right  and  left  of  her  in  the  central  space]. 
The  Queen,  the  Queen! 
An  tin*  Now  be  the  bridegroom  chosen! 

Eurym.     Lady,   this  is   the  night   when   thou 
shalt  choose. 
Grave  is  thy  mien:  here's  that  shall  make  thee  smile. 
Bring  forth  this  wooer  lordliest  and  last. 

Ctes.    These  rags  are  but  a  guise:  a  noble  man! 
Pen.  [to  Telemachus],    Child,  knowest  thou  this 

old  man  whom  they  mock? 

Telem.     Mother,  it  is  an  old  poor  beggar  man 

Who  says  that  he  brings  tidings  of  my  father. 

Wilt  thou  not  hear  him,  mother,  ere  thou  choose? 

Eurym.    Art  thou  still  eager,  lady,  for  new  lies? 

Antin.     Art  thou  not  weary  of  these  beggars' 

tales? 
Pen.     I  have  been  too  oft  deceived:  now  my 
still  heart 
I  bare  no  more  to  every  beggar's  eye: 
Sacred  shall  be  this  hunger  of  my  soul 
And  silent  till  the  end — 

[To  Telemachus j  who  makes  signs  to  her] 

What  wouldst  thou  say? 
[223] 


ULYSSES 

Telem.  [taking  her  apart].    Mother,  a  word;  but 
a  word. 

Antin.  [interposing].  Stand  back,  young  sir! 
There  shall  be  no  more  plots  between  you  two. 

[Murmurs  of  assent] 
Nor  beggars  weave  another  web — of  lies. 
The  moon  is  full!    Now  shalt  thou  choose  at  once. 

Telem.    Mother! 

Antin.  An  end  of  tricks! 

Some  Suitors.  Thy  word,  thy  word! 

Others.    Now  answer! 

Others.  Now  no  more  delay! 

All.  Choose,  choose! 

[They  all  crowd  about  Penelope  to  hear  her  de- 
cision, Ulysses  in  the  meantime  crouching  in  the 
ashes  by  the  hearth.] 

Ulys.    Goddess,  hast  thou  forsaken  me  at  last? 

Telem.  [to    Ulysses].    A  moment,  and  too  late! 

Ulys.  I  wait  the  sign! 

Pen.    Speak  any  then  who  will:  I'll  answer  him. 

Ctes.    I  claim  to  speak  the  first. 

Eurym.  By  right  of  age. 

Ctes.    Lady,  I  cannot  speak  as  a  raw  boy, 
But  as  a  man  of  comfortable  years; 
Though  in  my  youth  more  terrible  was  none 
To  foemen;  and  I  like  not  to  remember 
The  blood  that  I  have  spilt.    Behold  me  now 
A  man  not  old,  but  mellow,  like  good  wine, 
Not  over-jealous,  yet  an  eager  husband. 
This  figure  something  of  Apollo  lacks, 
But  though  I  might  not  catch  the  eye  of  a  girl, 
Still  a  wise  woman  would  consider  well, 
[2241 


Penelope  and  Eurycleia 


ULYSSES 

Ponder  by  nights  ere  she  would  let  me  go. 
Yet  I  would  urge  less  what  Ctesippus  is 
Than  what  Ctesippus  has  the  power  to  give. 

[To  Attendants]    Now  hold  up  to  the  moon  that 
glimmering  robe; 
Turn  it  this  way  and  that;  this  coffer  now, 
With  armlets  of  wrought  gold,  brooches  of  price, 
And  golden  bowls  embossed  with  beasts  and  men; 
These  draught-boards,  ivory  inlaid  with  silver, 
That  glistering  tire  and  these  enamelled  chains. 
Lo,  whatsoever  woman  can  desire 
I'll  give  thee  without  pause  and  without  stint, 
Wilt  thou  but  suffer  me  to  lead  thee  home. 

Pen.    Ctesippus,  not  the  glory  of  gems  or  gold 
Can  move  me:  hath  the  sea  a  pearl  so  rich 
As  dead  Ulysses  which  it  treasureth 
Far  down,  far  from  these  eyes?    Rather  would  I 
Possess  some  rag  of  him  drawn  up  perchance 
By  nets  of  seamen  hauling  'neath  the  moon 
Than  all  these  jewels  glistering  at  my  feet. 
How  couldst  thou  think  to  please  me  with  these  toys, 
When  in  that  chamber  I  have  garnered  up 
Garments  more  rich  to  me,  faded  and  dim, 
Old  robes  and  tarnished  armour  lovelier  far? 
Those  hadst  thou  seen,   thou  couldst  not  offer 
these. 

Eum.  [to  Ctesippus],  Now  thou  hast  leave  to  go — 

[Murmurs.] 

Your  pardon,  princes. 

Eurym.     Lady,  I  bring  no  gauds  of  pearl  and 
gold, 
I  know  thou  art  not  this  way  to  be  lured. 
[226] 


ULYSSES 

I  share  thy  grief  for  him  who  now  is  dead: 
Noble  was  he,  a  wise  man  and  a  strong. 

0  were  he  here,  I  first  would  clasp  his  hand. 
A  moment  till  my  voice  return  to  me. 

[He  bows  his  head  on  his  hands.] 
But  she  who  sits  enthroned  may  not  prolong 
The  luxury  of  tears;  nor  may  she  waste 
In  lasting  widowhood  a  people's  hopes, 
So  hard  is  height,  so  cruel  is  a  crown. 
Thou  art  a  queen:  a  moment  then  for  grief; 
Then  for  the  people  what  remains  of  life. 

1  offer  thee  the  comfort  of  high  cares, 
And  consolation  from  imperial  tasks: 

To  share  with  me  the  governance  of  a  land 
And  bring  thy  woman's  insight  to  the  state, 
The  touch  that's  gracious,  deft,  and  feminine. 

Sea-gazing  consort  of  a  hero  dead 
Reign  thou  with  me;  and  find  in  rule  relief! 
That  thou  no  longer  art  a  girl,  and  green, 
Troubles  me  not;  rather  I  prize  thee  more 
For  that  long  suffering  and  sleeplessness 
And  the  sweet  wisdom  of  thy  widowhood. 
Thou  hast  caught  splendour  from  the  sailless  sea, 
And  mystery  from  many  stars  outwatched; 
Rarer  art  thou  from  yearning  and  more  rich. 
Humbly  I  would  entreat  you  for  my  answer. 

Pen.    Sir,  could  I  list  to  any,  'twere  to  thee: 
Fair  were  thy  words,  and  such  as  women  love, 
And  thou  has  found  my  brain,  but  not  my  heart, 
Feigning  a  ruth  I  felt  thou  didst  not  feel. 
Ask  me  not  to  forget  in  public  good 
This  solitary,  dear,  and  piercing  loss. 
[227] 


ULYSSES 

Rather  would  I  remember  one  dead  man, 
Wasting  the  years  away,  and  yet  remember, 
Than  rule  a  living  kingdom  by  thy  side. 
Alas!    I  am  a  woman  utterly! 

Antin.    Enough  of  jewels,  and  enough  of  thrones! 
Would  these  men  lure  thee?    I  by  thee  am  lured. 
For  thee,  O  woman,  thee  alone,  I  thirst. 
Time,  that  doth  mar  us  all,  and  dims,  and  damps, 
Ashens  the  hair  and  scribbles  round  the  eye, 
Weareth  not  thee,  thou  miracle,  away, 
Ever  in  beauty  waxing  without  wane. 
No  more  I'll  toss  upon  a  burning  bed, 
Leap  out  at  midnight  on  a  smouldering  floor, 
Pacing,  pacing  away  the  aching  night. 
Thou,  thou  didst  light  this  fire,  and  thou  shalt 
quench  it. 

Telem.    [aside   to    Ulysses].     Dost   thou   hear, 
father? 

Ulys.  Goddess,  now  the  sign! 

Antin.    Or,  if  thou  wilt  not,  I'll  compel  thee. 

[Murmurs.] 

0! 
I  care  not  for  your  murmurs:  I  risk  all! 
Come  now  away!  or  on  the  instant  I 
Will  catch  thee  in  these  arms  up  from  the  ground 
And  fling  thee  o'er  my  shoulder,  and  run  with  thee 
As  from  a  house  aflame. 

Telem,  I'll  spill  thy  blood. 

Ulys.    Unleash  me,  goddess,  let  me  go. 

Enm.  Up,  up! 

Antin.     For  what  dost  thou  still  wait?     For 
whom,  for  whom? 

[228] 


ULYSSES 

Thy  husband?    he  is  dead,  drowned  in  the  ooze: 
The  fish  are  at  him  now  in  the  deep  slime. 

Pen.    O! 

Telem.  [to  Ulysses],    Art  thou  tame? 

Ulys.  I  bite  these 

bloody  lips. 

Antin.     Or  if  he  be  not  dead,  what  is  he  now? 
A  shambling  shadow,  a  wrecked,  mumbling  ghost, 
A  man  no  more:  no  better  than  yon  beggar 
That  huddles  to  the  fire:  so  bowed,  so  worn, 
So  ragged  and  ruined,  and  so  filthy  and  fallen! 
Look  on  that  beggar!    There  thy  husband  see! 

Pen.    Splendid  Antinous,  I  tell  thee  this; 
That  if  my  husband  on  this  moment  came 
In  by  that  door  even  as  yon  beggar  man, 
So  bowed,  so  worn,  so  ragged  and  so  fallen, 
Him  would  I  rather  catch  unto  this  heart 
And  hold  his  holy  ruins  in  my  arms, 
Than  touch  thee  in  thy  glory  and  thy  strength. 

Ulys.  [starting  up].    O  nobly  spoken! 

[Uproar.] 

Suffer  an  old  man! 

Antin.  Now  answer. 

Eurym.  Lady! 

Ctes.  Bring  those  robes  again! 

Pen.   \bewildered].     Sirs,  but  one  moment,  will 
you  give  me  leave? 
Then  do  I  swear  by  all  the  gods  to  choose. 
A  womanish  last  request — a  silly  favour! 

Antin.     0! 

Eurym.  [fawning  on  her].    Lady,  I  will  not  refuse 
thee. 

F2291 


ULYSSES 

Pen.  'Tis 

That  I  may  satisfy  me  if  this  beggar 
Perhaps  doth  bring  me  tidings  of  Ulysses. 

Antin.    This  but  to  put  us  by! 

Eurym.    [still  fawns].  Suffer  her,  sirs! 

[The  Suitors  retire  sullenly  up.  Penelope  comes 
back  to  her  seat  at  the  fire  beside  which  Ulysses 
crouches.     As  she  approaches  him  he  trembles.] 

Pen.  Old  man,  wilt  thou  deceive  me  yet  again? 
Be  not  afraid:  there's  nought  in  me  to  fear. 

Ulys.  I'll  not  deceive  thee,  lady:  nearer  draw 
And  motion  all  away! 

[Penelope  signs  to  all  to  move  away.] 

Canst  thou  endure 
The  shaft  of  sudden  joy,  yet  make  no  cry? 

Pen.    Though  I  shall  fall  I'll  not  cry  out:  say, 
say. 

Ulys.      Ulysses    lives — thou   art   gone    white — 
be  still! 
Grip  fast  thy  chair  and  look  upon  the  ground! — 
And  he  is  very  near  to  thee  even  now. 

Pen.    Where,  where? 

Ulys.  This  night  is  he  in  Ithaca; 

Perchance  even  now  is  rushing  to  his  halls; 
Might  at  this  moment  come  in  by  that  door. 

Pen.    How  shall  I  trust  thy  tale?    If  thou  sayest 
true 
Thou  ne'er  shalt  beg  again. 

Ulys.  I  come  from  him. 

Pen.    What  is  thy  name? 

Ulys.  Idomeneus  from  Crete. 

He  charged  me  with  these  tidings — and  this  ring. 
[230] 


ULYSSES 

Pen.     This  would  he  not  have  given:  O  this 
was  pulled 
From  his  dead  finger! 

Ulys.  Lady,  if  I  lie, — 

If  on  this  night  Ulysses  comes  not  home, — 
Then  give  me  to  thy  thralls  to  slay  me  here. 

Pen.     Ah!  they  will  kill  him. 

Ulys.  Fear  not;   he  is   wise. 

Only  do  thou  each  moment  still  delay 
Thy  answer. 

Pen.  Yet  what  plea? 

Ulys.  Propose  to  them 

Some  simple  trial  whereby  thou  mayst  choose. 

Pen.    What,  what? 

Ulys.  The  bow:  is  that  Ulysses*  bow? 

Pen.     Cherished  and   daily  suppled  by  these 
hands. 

Ulys.    Say  thou  wilt  choose  whoe'er  shall  bend 
his  bow. 
But  still  to  interpose  some  brief  delay, 
Call  you  some  woman  forth  to  bathe  my  feet. 

Pen.     Melantho,  bring  clear  water  hither  and 
bathe  this  old  man's  feet. 

Mel.  I?  I'll  not  touch  his  feet, 

For  I  can  touch  the  lips  of  better  men. 

Ulys.    Lady,  some  woman  that  hath  seen  much 
sorrow 
As  I  have. 

Pen.         Eurycleia,  bathe  his  feet. 

[Eurycleia  brings  water  in  a  brazen  vessel  to 
Ulysses;  as  he  lifts  his  robe  she  sees  the  scar  and 
drops  the  basin.] 

f2311 


ULYSSES 

Eur.     The  scar  there. 

Ulys.  Wouldst  thou  slay  me? 

hold  thy  peace. 

Pen.    What  ails  thee,  Eurycleia? 

Eur.  0  my  mistress! 

These  old  hands  tremble  even  at  such  a  task. 

Antin.  [advancing].     Now,  lady,  now!     This  is 
delay  enough! 
Hast  thou  at  last  heard  tidings  of  thy  lord? 
Doth  he  come  home  to-night? 

Pen.  Alas,  alas! 

He  is  drowned,  and  from  his  finger,  lo!  this  ring. 

Antin.    Thou'rt  satisfied  at  last? 

Suitors.  Now  answer: 

choose. 

Pen.    No  one  of  you  I  like  above  the  rest, 
Yet  have  I  sworn  to  choose:  so  I  will  put 
This  matter  to  a  simple  trial. 

Suitors.  What? 

Pen.     See  where   behind   you   hangs   Ulysses* 
bow. 
He  that  can  bend  his  bow  and  loose  a  shaft, 
Him  will  I  take  as  husband  from  you  all. 

[They  rush  to  take  it.] 

Suitors.      The    bow! 

Pen.  [staying  them].    My  son  alone  shall  reach 
it  down, 
After  such  time  shall  be  the  first  to  touch  it. 

[Penelope  retires  down  to  watch  the  trial.  Tele- 
machus  brings  down  the  bow  and  a  sheaf  of  arrows. 
Ctesippus  advances,  and  after  much  groaning  and 
panting  fails  to  string  it.] 

[232] 


ULYSSES 

Ctes.     Easily  in  the  morning  could  I  bend  it, 
But  I  have  supped! 

[Eurymachus  essays  to  string  it  and  fails.] 

Eurym.    Lady,  wilt  choose  a  husband 
For  brutish  force?  what  play  hath  the  mind  here? 

[ Antinous  fails  to  siring  the  bow.] 

Antin.    If  I  can  bend  it  not,  no  man  can  bend  it. 

Pen.   [to  Others].    And  will  you  not  essay?  or  you? 

Others.  Not  we. 

Another.    Where  craft  and  strength  have  failed, 
what  use  for  us? 

Pen.    I  will  wed  no  man  till  he  bend  that  bow. 

[Angry  murmurs  among  the  Suitors.] 

[Lightning  flashes;  Ulysses  recognizes  by  the  sign 
that  the  moment  for  action  has  come.] 

Ulys.  [rising].    Lady,  and  princes,  but  to  make 
you  sport, 
I  will  essay  to  bend  Ulysses'  bow: 

[Loud  laughter.] 
To  make  you  sport — for  I  have  supped  full  well. 

Antin.      Impudent   rags!      Thou  shalt  not  vie 
with  us. 

Telem.    The  beggar  shall  make  trial:  come,  old 
man! 

Ctes.    The  old  man!  excellent! 

All  [laughing  loudly].     The  beggar  man! 

Eurym.  Come  forth,  thou  wooer  lordliest  and  last. 

Antin.     Here  is  a  broad  mark  for  thy  shaft,  old 
man. 

Pen.    Ah,  mock  him  not! 

Ulys.  Sirs,  but  to  make  you  sport. 

[He  totters  towards  the  bow.] 
[  233  ] 


ULYSSES 

Athene,  strength!    0  if  my  might  should  fail  me! 

[He  takes  the  bow,  and  after  simulated  faltering, 
strings  it  amid  the  amazed  silence  of  the  Suitors.  He 
springs  to  his  height,  and  appears  in  his  own  like- 
ness, his  rags  falling  from  him,  and  disclosing  him 
armed  and  in  the  full  glory  of  manhood.] 
Dogs,  do  ye  know  me  now? 

Pen.  [rushing  towards  him].    Ulysses! 

Ulys.  Back! 

Suitors  [amazedly  amid  themselves].  Ulysses! 
is  it  he?    Is  it  he — Ulysses? 

[  Ulysses  shoots,  killing  Antinous,  who  falls.] 

Ulys.  Who  is  for  me?  The  swords  there  and 
the  shields! 

[Telemachus  and  Eumceus  snatch  down  the  weap- 
ons, and  arming  Ulysses  and  themselves,  stand  by  him.] 

Eurym.  [coming  over  fawningly  from  among  the 
Suitors  towards  Ulysses],  Hero  restored,  I'll  stand 
by  thee  for  one! 

Ulys.  [striding  out  and  spearing  him], 
Would'st  fawn  on  me?  go  fawn  among  the  dead. 

[Eurymachus  falls.  The  Suitors,  finding  no 
weapons  on  the  walls,  crowd  waveringly  together.] 

Ctes.  [encouraging  them].  We  are  ten  to  one: 
crush,  crush  them  by  sheer  weight. 

[The  Suitors  make  a  headlong  rush  upon  Ulysses 
and  his  companions,  but  are  stayed  in  mid  rush  by 
thunder,  lightning,  and  supernatural  darkness,  fol- 
lowed by  the  apparition  of  Athene  standing  by  Ulysses.] 

Suitors.  The  gods  fight  for  him.  Fly!  we  are 
undone. 

[Athene  and    Ulysses  with    Eumarus  and    Tele- 
[234] 


ULYSSES 

machus  fall  on  them,  and  they  are  driven  in  fierce 
brief  medley,  visible  by  flashes  of  lightning,  and  with 
noise  of  groans  and  falls,  out  headlong  through  the 
door.  Sounds  of  slaughter  continue  to  be  heard  from 
the  court  without.  The  darkness  lifts,  discovering 
Ulysses  standing  on  the  threshold  at  the  upper  end  of 
the  hall,  Athene  still  at  his  side.  He  turns,  laying  by 
sword  and  shield,  while  Penelope  gazes  in  passionate 
uncertainty  toward  him  from  the  corner  of  the  hall.] 

Ulys.  [solemnly].    First  unto  Zeus  and  to  Athene 
praise! 
Go  all  of  you  apart!  even  thou,  my  son, 
And  leave  me  with  Penelope  alone. 

Ath.    Thou  art  come  home,  Ulysses!    Now  fare- 
well! 
For  violated  laws  are  here  avenged, 
And  I,  who  brought  thee  through  those  bitter  years, 
Those  bitter  years  which  make  this  moment  sweet, 
I,  even,  in  this  moment  have  no  share. 

[Athene  disappears.] 

[  Ulysses  and  Penelope  slowly  approach  each 
other  across  the  hall,  with  rapt  gaze,  hesitatingly. 
Then  she  is  folded  to  his  breast  in  silence,  while  the 
voice  of  the  Minstrel  is  heard  without,  repeating  the 
words  of  the  song  from  the  first  Act, 

And  she  shall  fall  upon  his  breast 
With  never  a  spoken  word, 

and  the  fire  on  the  hearth,  which  has  burnt  low  through" 
out  this  scene,  leaps  up  into  sudden  brightness.] 

CURTAIN 
[235] 


NOTES  ON  THE  PLAYS 

Much  of  the  satisfaction  in  dealing  with  a  prob- 
lem, once  one  knows  how  to  go  about  it,  comes 
from  working  it  out  for  one's  self.  These  notes 
have  been  written  solely  to  call  to  the  attention  of 
the  students  certain  concrete  and  practical  matters 
that  they  may  be  glad  to  have  brought  to  their 
notice  before  they  start  their  study  with  the  plays 
concerned.  The  writer  has,  to  be  sure,  included 
cautions  in  the  matter  of  the  tone  or  spirit  of  two 
of  the  plays;  but  with  this  exception,  he  has  not  in- 
terfered with  the  students  in  their  pleasant  task  of 
developing  a  full  appreciation  of  the  seven  plays. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  inadequacies  of  cos- 
tuming, setting,  and  properties  are  of  slight  im- 
portance in  class-room  work,  because  the  players 
are  free  to  work  wholly  for  the  sake  of  their  inter- 
pretation and  its  expression.  Their  audience  is 
part  of  their  own  "stock  company"  and,  being  per- 
fectly familiar  with  the  play,  it  does  not  have  to  see 
the  physical  equipment  in  order  to  understand  the 
work. 

The  Golden  Doom 

The  serious  tone  of  the  play  must  be  carefully 
sustained,  and  a  real  effort  made  to  reproduce  the 
charm  that  lies  in  the  simplicity  of  language, 
thought,  and  incident. 

[237] 


NOTES  ON  THE  PLAYS 

In  mixed  classes,  any  of  the  roles  ma}'  be  played 
by  girls,  but  the  r61es  of  the  Sentries  are  least 
suited  to  them. 

The  question  of  what  characters — if  any — may 
properly  be  considered  "  type  "  characters,  should 
provoke  profitable  discussion. 

In  the  text,  exits  and  entrances  are  not  always 
indicated  as  left  or  right.  The  class  should  decide 
this  matter  in  such  cases. 

Will  O'  The  Wisp 

A  strong  effort  must  be  made  to  sustain  the 
proper  atmosphere,  for  the  students  will  not  have 
the  help  of  the  lighting  effects  that  the  dramatist 
conceived.  Perhaps  the  room  can  be  darkened  at 
the  end  of  the  play.  A  violin  could  be  played  off 
stage  to  provide  the  melody  that  the  text  calls  for. 
Music  is  not  essential  in  the  classroom  work  with 
any  of  the  plays  in  this  book,  but  in  the  case  of 
"Will  O'  The  Wisp"  it  will  greatly  help  the  stu- 
dents to  give  the  latter  part  of  the  play  in  the  proper 
tone. 

Spreading  the  News 

In  classroom  work  with  this  play  there  is  no  real 
need  for  the  players  to  speak  in  dialect.  The 
dramatist  has  used  the  diction  and  idiom  of  rural 
Irish  communities,  and  these  supply  sufficient 
"  color  "  to  the  dialogue.  If  the  students  can  use  a 
light  brogue,  so  much  the  better;  but  no  dialect  is 
preferable  to  dialect  overdone  or  badly  done. 

In  cases  where  the  dramatist  has  not  indicated 
[238] 


NOTES   ON  THE  PLAYS 


the  side  of  the  stage,  the  class  should  determine 
whether  the  exits  and  entrances  are  right  or  left. 
The  music  for  Jack  Smith's  song  of  "  The  Red- 
Haired  Man's  Wife,"  as  provided  by  Lady  Gregory, 
is  given  below: 

THE  RED-HAIRED  MAN'S  WIFE 


fit 


^g 


^P^Pi 


I     thought,     my  first  love,  there'd  bo    but  one  house 


^-j^J^^^JJL 


t  8 

bO'tweea     you      and    me,       And  1        thought 

J-JL 


*br-7*-^z3 


*5S=3= 


Would       find   your  •  self        coax    •    !ng 


in 


3 


m  J  J.  J: 


my   child     on   your  tense*        O    •    ver     the     tide 


i   tm  ■-*    i  ii    i  i  _  .      ... 


P 


t   would   leap     with    the    leap      cfr  a    swan, 


s 


^s 


Till        I         came  to  the  side 


i  J  i  j-jH» 


of     the       wife  of     the     red*  haired    man* 

[239] 


NOTES  ON  THE  PLAYS 

The  Turtle  Dove 

The  students  must  understand  the  playful  seri- 
ousness in  which  "  The  Turtle  Dove  "  is  to  be  given. 
Played  in  another  spirit,  the  piece  loses  much  of  its 
quaintness  and  delicacy. 

In  mixed  classes  any  of  the  roles  may  be  taken 
by  girls.  Indeed,  the  Chang-sut-yen  should  be  a 
girl,  for  then  the  lovers  can  play  their  parts  without 
any  constraint  or  embarrassment. 

The  class  will  have  to  determine  the  sides  of  the 
stage  by  which  the  various  characters  enter  and 
leave. 

The  following  is  the  dramatist's  music  for  the 
song  in  the  play. 

CHINESE  MELODY 


Borlo       un  day  Bor  lo      un  doy  chm  lo        chm  lo 


■un  doy.. 

Allison's  Lad 

In  this  play  some  of  the  dialogue  is  not  supposed 
to  be  heard  by  certain  of  the  characters.  The 
dramatist  is  justified  in  presenting  such  a  condition : 
in  real  life  people  in  a  room  may  talk  in  groups, 
and  here  the  dramatist  has  merely  let  the  audience 
overhear  one  particular  group.  In  order  that  the 
other  characters  shall  seem  not  to  hear  or  watch 
the  speakers,  however,  these  other  characters 
must  appear  busy  with  their  own  affairs. 
[240] 


NOTES  ON  THE  PLAYS 


Ulysses 

The  Ulysses  story  is  familiar  to  most  high  school 
boys  and  girls.  In  Stephen  Phillips's  three-act 
play,  the  second  scene  of  the  third  act  is  the  final 
scene  in  the  play.  The  entire  third  acts  deals  with 
the  home-coming  of  the  hero.  In  the  first  scene  of 
the  act,  Ulysses  has  reached  Ithaca;  he  meets 
Athene,  who  assures  him  of  her  aid  but  cautions 
him  not  to  attack  the  suitors  until  she  sends  the 
sign — a  lightning  flash.  She  disguises  him  as  a 
beggar.  Ulysses  reveals  his  identity  to  Eumoeus 
and  TelemachuSj  whom  he  meets  at  the  former's 
hut,  and  tells  them  of  his  plan  to  go  to  the  palace 
as  a  beggar  and  attack  the  suitors  there  when 
Athene  shall  send  the  sign.  They  promise  to  help 
him,  and,  preceding  him  to  the  palace,  remove  from 
the  walls  of  the  hall  all  the  weapons  and  armor  save 
the  three  spears  and  shields  that  Ulysses  and  they 
will  need.  Penelope  has  been  forced  by  the  suitors 
to  agree  to  choose  one  of  them  for  a  husband  as 
soon  as  the  moon  shall  appear  at  the  full.  The 
time  of  the  second  scene  is  the  evening  of  the 
full  moon. 

In  the  classroom  work  it  may  be  well  to  omit  the 
slaughter  of  the  suitors,  and  to  end  the  scene  with 
Ulysses'  disclosure  of  his  identity.  If  the  kill- 
ing of  the  suitors  is  to  be  represented,  it  is  well  to 
have  them  rush  off  the  stage,  with  Ulysses  follow- 
ing them.  The  slaughter  cannot  adequately  be 
represented  in  the  classroom,  and  affords  little  op- 
portunity for  careful  individual  work.  Aside  from 
[241] 


NOTES  ON  THE  PLAYS 

this  section  of  the  scene,  however,  the  selection  is 
entirely  actable  in  the  classroom. 

The  men  and  women  characters  are  even  in 
number.  The  important  women  characters  are 
somewhat  fewer  than  the  important  men  char- 
acters, however,  so  that  in  a  mixed  class  it  may  be 
well  to  have  girls  take  the  r61es  of  Eurymachus  and 
the  minstrel,  Phemius.  Of  course,  it  is  not  neces- 
sary to  have  many  suitors  and  handmaidens.  The 
large  cast — it  is  the  largest  in  the  seven  plays — 
sails  for  a  careful  distribution  of  the  players  on  the 
stage.  Many  effective  groupings  are  possible,  and 
the  determination  of  the  best  arrangement  of  the 
players  is  an  interesting  problem. 

At  times  Ulysses,  Telemachus,  and  Eumceus 
speak  so  that  the  rest  of  the  characters  do  not 
hear  them;  the  remarks  they  make  at  such  times 
are  short  and  may  be  called  "  asides."  These  asides 
must  be  "covered,"  which  means  that  while  they 
are  being  spoken  the  characters  not  concerned 
must  appear  busy  with  their  own  speech  and  action. 
To  manage  this  skillfully  requires  care,  but  it  is 
entirely  possible  to  cover  effectively  the  asides 
in  this  play. 

If  possible,  the  song  of  the  minstrel  should  be 
set  to  music;  if  this  is  not  possible,  the  minstrel 
may  recite  the  words  of  the  song,  preferably  to  a 
string  accompaniment  off  the  "  stage."  No  music 
is  printed  in  the  Macmillan  edition  of  the  play. 

The  beautiful  blank  verse  deserves  careful  de- 
livery. The  student  should  realize  that  blank 
verse  must  not  be  read  like  prose,  but  with  a  re- 
[242] 


NOTES  ON  THE  PLAYS 

gard  both  to  its  metrical  quality  and  to  the  sound  of 
the  words  and  phrases.    Take  the  line 

Thou  hast  caught  splendour  from  the  sailless  sea. 

Here  there  is  a  wavelike  rhythm,  where  the  two 
strong  accents,  one  on  splen  and  one  on  sail,  are  al- 
most like  the  crests  of  two  waves  that,  having 
gathered  momentum  through  the  preceding  syl- 
lables and  reached  their  climax,  break  on  the  next 
syllable.  Reading  the  line  like  prose  spoils  this 
effect.  Then  there  is  the  sound  of  the  long  vowels, 
and  of  the  s's  and  I's;  these  sounds  must  be  given 
their  proper  chance  to  add  to  the  emotional  tone 
of  the  passage. 

The  words  of  the  song  that  is  referred  to  at  the 
close  of  the  selection,  form  an  exquisite  lyric.  They 
are 

O  set  the  sails,  for  Troy,  for  Troy  is  fallen, 

And  Helen  cometh  home; 
O  set  the  sails,  and  all  the  Phrygian  winds 

Breathe  us  across  the  foam! 
O  set  the  sails  unto  the  golden  West! 

It  is  o'er,  the  bitter  strife. 
At  last  the  father  cometh  to  the  son, 

And  the  husband  to  the  wife! 
And  she  shall  fall  upon  his  heart 

With  never  a  spoken  word. 


[243] 


PART  III 

Notes  to  the  Instructor 


NOTES  TO  THE  INSTRUCTOR 

NOTES  ON  CHAPTER  I 

In  Chapter  I  the  nature  of  the  several  problems 
involved  in  the  preliminary  study  of  a  play  has  been 
indicated.  The  instructor  will  find  it  well  to  assign 
as  home-work  for  the  students  the  consideration 
of  these  problems,  and  to  have  the  students  discuss 
them  fully  and  frankly  in  the  classroom. 

To  be  valuable,  the  work  should  be  done  with 
considerable  intensiveness.  The  instructor  may 
wish  to  make  some  other  division  of  the  work  of  the 
preliminary  study  than  the  one  suggested,  and  cer- 
tainly the  six  problems  are  not  of  equal  scope  or 
difficulty.  With  several  of  the  plays  a  considera- 
tion of  music  will  not  be  called  for  at  all,  and  cir- 
cumstances may  make  that  problem  an  unimpor- 
tant one  in  any  case.  The  instructor  will  very  likely 
wish  to  divide  the  problem  of  the  setting  into  three, 
treating  the  physical  background,  the  costumes,  and 
the  properties,  as  separate  matters;  he  may  wish 
to  split  the  character  study,  similarly,  into  several 
parts.  One  method  of  procedure  is  to  divide  the 
class  into  as  many  groups  as  there  are  problems  for 
consideration,  and  to  assign  to  each  group  the 
special  work  of  making  an  intensive  study  of  one 
of  the  problems.  When  any  particular  problem 
is  taken  up  in  the  classroom,  the  particular  group 
[247] 


NOTES  TO  THE  INSTRUCTOR 

that  has  been  assigned  to  its  consideration  leads 
in  the  discussion,  the  other  students  being  free 
to  criticize  the  opinions  presented  and  to  advocate 
their  own.  One  or  more  single  problems  may  be 
considered  in  the  course  of  a  single  recitation,  the 
number  depending  upon  the  importance  of  the 
questions  to  be  discussed  and  the  degree  of  inten- 
siveness  that  the  instructor  considers  proper  for 
their  treatment.  If  the  group  or  committee  plan 
is  not  desired,  the  entire  class  can  be  assigned  to 
study  the  problem  or  problems  assigned  as  the 
subject  for  a  given  recitation. 

In  any  case  the  discussion  should  be  largely 
informal.  The  interpretation  of  a  play  is  a  proj- 
ect, and  the  entire  class  should  be  actively  con- 
cerned in  every  phase  of  it;  but  the  more  informal 
the  discussion  is,  the  more  will  the  students  be  dis- 
posed to  take  part  in  it.  Many  thoughtful  and 
ingenious  suggestions  will  be  made  in  the  course 
of  an  informal  class  discussion  that  would  otherwise 
not  be  volunteered  at  all,  and  each  member  of  the 
class  will  find  his  own  ideas  enriched,  clarified,  and 
corrected  by  the  ideas  of  his  fellows. 

In  the  general  study  of  the  play  there  is  ample 
occasion  for  written  work  as  well  as  for  oral  re- 
ports and  impromptu  discussions.  The  instructor 
may  require  the  students  to  put  in  writing  the 
opinions  and  suggestions  that  they  formulate  in 
the  course  of  their  home  study  of  the  various  prob- 
lems. In  this  case,  the  reports, — some  of  them, 
at  least — can  be  read  in  class,  and  made  to  form 
the  basis  of  the  discussions.  Summaries  of  the 
[248] 


NOTES  TO  THE  INSTRUCTOR 

discussions,  too,  may  be  written,  or  written  argu- 
ments may  be  prepared,  supporting  or  opposing 
suggestions  made  in  the  course  of  the  classroom 
work.  In  length,  such  written  exercises  may  be 
single  paragraphs  or  full  themes,  and  in  type  they 
may  be  either  exposition,  argument,  description, 
or  narration,  or  any  combination  of  these  funda- 
mental types.  There  is  ample  opportunity,  too,  for 
the  writing  of  letters  requesting  information,  advice, 
or  the  loan  of  materials.  For  needed  books  or  ar- 
ticles, advertisements  maybe  written  to  be  posted  on 
school  bulletins  or  printed  in  the  school  newspaper; 
news  items,  too,  may  be  composed  for  the  school 
paper.  Indeed,  there  is  hardly  a  limit  to  the  possi- 
bilities for  written  and  oral  composition  in  relation 
to  the  preliminary  study  of  a  play  in  the  classroom. 
Members  of  the  dramatic  class  may  be  doing 
such  work  in  other  departments  as  would  bear  di- 
rectly upon  the  dramatic  work.  For  example,  some 
dramatic  student  may  be  enrolled  in  an  art  class 
engaged  in  costume  designing.  Or  a  history  class, 
of  which  some  of  the  dramatic  class  are  members, 
may  be  considering  the  period  in  which  the  play 
that  is  being  studied  is  set,  and  so  learning  facts 
valuable  for  the  dramatic  class  in  matters  of  scene, 
costuming  and  manners.  Again,  it  is  possible  that 
other  departments  would  modify  the  work  which 
certain  of  the  members  of  the  dramatic  class  are 
taking  in  order  that  that  work  could  bear  more 
directly  than  otherwise  on  the  dramatic  work. 
Thus  the  Art  Department  might  accept  sketches 
of  stage  settings,  posters  or  signs  of  the  play,  or 
F249] 


NOTES  TO  THE  INSTRUCTOR 

the  like,  in  lieu  of  other  poster  or  sign  work.  Or 
students  might  be  permitted  to  adjust  their  work 
in  the  music  classes  so  that  it  would  relate  prac- 
tically to  their  dramatic  study.  Shop  work  by  the 
boys  and  sewing  by  the  girls  might  be  likewise 
correlated:  miniature  stage  sets,  and  costume 
models,  either  small  or  full-size,  would  be  helpful 
to  the  dramatic  class  and  provide  attractive  work 
for  the  individuals  concerned. 

Before  the  acting  is  begun,  the  arrangement  of 
the  classroom  must  be  considered.  Some  dra- 
matic classes  may  be  so  fortunate  as  to  have  the 
use  of  the  school  auditorium.  Where  the  audito- 
rium is  unavailable,  a  large  room,  preferably  with- 
out stationary  desks,  and  with  free  space  at  one 
end,  will  prove  very  satisfactory.  But  the  work 
can  be  done  even  in  an  ordinary  classroom,  al- 
though the  movement  of  the  players  will  be 
cramped,  and  they  will  be  too  close  to  the  rest  of 
the  class  for  full  effectiveness.  Where  there  is 
anything  approaching  a  free  space  for  the  actors, 
there  will  be  a  possibility  of  suggesting  the  setting 
in  some  way.  Screens  and  movable  blackboards 
will  serve  to  suggest  the  walls  of  a  room,  and  stools, 
desks,  and  tables  will  serve  many  purposes.  The 
idea  is  not  to  furnish  any  imitation  of  the  real 
setting,  but  merely  to  mark  the  limits  of  the 
imagined  scene  and  definitely  to  locate  the  most 
important  objects  in  the  setting.  The  players  will 
be  at  a  loss  if  they  must  remember — unaided  by 
any  object  to  mark  it — where  this  chair  is,  or  that 
table,  or  the  door,  or  the  fireplace,  or  the  garden 
[250] 


NOTES  TO  THE   INSTRUCTOR 

gate,  or  the  entrance  to  the  palace.  Then,  too,  if 
a  player  is  to  sit  down  at  any  time,  he  should  have 
something  to  sit  on;  and  where  a  number  of  charac- 
ters are  to  be  grouped  about  a  table,  they  cannot 
well  make  believe  to  be  there  unless  they  have  a 
table  or  something  that  will  take  its  place. 

Similarly,  something  may  be  done  to  suggest 
costumes  and  properties.  Many  of  the  students 
will  be  glad  to  lend  some  simple  things,  and  the 
various  departments  of  the  school  can  be  laid  un- 
der requisition  for  other  articles.  It  is  surprising 
how  a  shawl,  an  apron,  an  old  hat,  a  cane,  an  um- 
brella, an  overcoat,  a  candle,  or  a  few  dishes  will 
serve  to  help  the  class  in  their  make-believe.  In- 
deed, it  is  well  to  have  something  to  represent  each 
important  property,  unless  the  makeshift  would 
have  to  be  ridiculously  unlike  the  original.  Where 
a  telephone  is  called  for,  an  old  instrument  with  a 
short  dummy  wire  is  generally  procurable,  and  one 
of  the  class  can  easily  attach  a  small  battery  to  an 
electric  bell — both  borrowed  from  the  Science  De- 
partment,— and  the  bell  can  be  rung  off  stage  by 
someone  not  acting  at  the  time  it  is  to  be  used. 
Students  often  show  a  wealth  of  ingenuity  in  sug- 
gesting equipment  for  the  classroom  "  stage,"  and 
they  enjoy  meeting  the  challenge  to  their  inventive 
powers. 

NOTES  ON  CHAPTER  II 

In  preparing  the  material  for  Chapter  II  the 
writer  has  sought  to  provide  the  students  with  the 
[251] 


NOTES  TO  THE  INSTRUCTOR 

information  they  need  if  they  are  to  do  their  work 
thoroughly  and  intelligently.  Without  such  in- 
formation the  young  player  is  likely  to  lack  the 
necessary  grounding  for  his  work:  he  will  not  know 
at  what  to  aim  or  how  to  proceed,  and  he  may  not 
only  commit  serious  errors,  but  may  fundamentally 
misconceive  the  lines  along  which  he  should  pro- 
ceed in  his  interpretation. 

Before  they  begin  the  detailed  interpretation  of 
their  first  play,  the  students  should  read  the  whole 
of  Chapter  II  in  order  to  obtain  a  general  per- 
spective of  the  field  in  which  their  work  of  inter- 
pretation lies.  An  exhaustive  study  of  the  chap- 
ter is  not  recommended,  since  that  would  be  a 
working  with  theory  rather  than  practice.  The 
reading  of  the  chapter  for  perspective  need  not  be 
repeated  when  the  other  plays  are  studied. 

When  they  have  a  general  conception  of  the 
principles  set  forth  in  Chapter  II,  the  members 
of  the  class  should  take  the  first  step  in  the  de- 
tailed interpretation  of  their  play.  This  consists 
of  the  work  indicated  in  the  sections  on  The  Situa- 
tions, Realizing  the  Setting,  and  Getting  Inside  the 
Character.  Discussions  in  the  classroom,  following 
individual  work  at  home,  will  be  very  valuable 
here.  But  a  thorough  study  of  all  the  characters 
in  a  play  entails  a  good  deal  of  work,  and  for  this 
reason  the  characters  may  be  divided  among 
groups  of  students,  the  groups  being  required  to 
report  to  the  class  upon  their  work. 

The  work  with  The  Situations,  Realizing  the 
Setting,  and  Getting  Inside  the  Character  con- 
[252] 


NOTES  TO  THE  INSTRUCTOR 

stitutes  the  first  step  in  the  detailed  interpretation 
of  the  play.  When  this  step  has  been  taken,  the 
class  is  ready  to  begin  the  presentation  of  the  play, 
and  the  acting  (together  with  the  class  discussions 
of  the  work)  will  now  constitute  the  matter  of  the 
recitations.  In  the  preparation  of  their  roles  the 
students  should  make  constant  reference  to  the 
principles  presented  in  the  sections  on  Acting  as 
Team  Work,  the  Auditory  Appeal,  and  the  Visual 
Appeal. 

The  Plan  of  the  Recitation 

The  writer  submits  the  following  plan  as  one  that 
has  proved  entirely  satisfactory  with  his  own  dra- 
matic classes. 

1.  Assignment  and  Preparation  of  the  Lesson. 

When  the  class  is  ready  to  act  the  play,  the  in- 
structor (or  a  committee  of  the  class)  assigns  a 
definite  section  of  the  play  for  the  next  recitation. 
In  the  assignment,  the  various  roles  are  distributed 
among  the  several  groups — usually  six — into  which 
the  class  has  been  divided.  If  the  cast  is  large,  a 
group  may  be  asked  to  prepare  more  than  one  role, 
and  if  the  cast  is  small,  more  than  one  group  may 
be  given  the  same  character.  The  students  pre- 
pare their  r61e  or  r61es  to  the  end  of  the  section 
covered  by  the  assignment. 

In  this  preparation  of  the  assignment  the  stu- 
dent considers  four  matters: 

a.  The  value  of  his  rdle  in  the  part  of  the  play 
assigned  for  study.  The  student  must  realize  what 
[253] 


NOTES  TO  THE  INSTRUCTOR 

contribution  his  role  makes  to  the  situation  or 
situations  included  in  the  day's  assignment.  The 
value  of  this  study  lies  in  the  fact  that  it  provides 
the  student  with  an  objective  toward  which  to 
work  in  his  preparation  of  the  lesson. 

b.  The  action  and  grouping  of  the  characters  on 
the  stage.  The  student  must  visualize  the  stage 
picture  or  the  series  of  stage  pictures  in  order  both 
to  see  his  own  work  against  a  proper  background, 
and  to  conceive  his  "  business  "  properly. 

c.  The  ideas  and  states  of  feeling  expressed  or  im- 
plied in  the  lines  of  his  rdle.  The  detailed  thoughts 
and  feelings  entertained  by  the  character  vary 
in  different  passages,  though  they  are  all  expres- 
sions of  a  unified,  underlying  state  of  thought 
and  feeling.  With  this  background  of  thought  and 
emotion  firmly  in  mind,  the  student  must  analyze 
each  passage  in  his  role  to  find  the  exact  idea  and 
the  exact  feeling  it  expresses  or  implies.  The 
student's  work  of  expression  is  to  be  definite,  and 
to  make  it  definite  he  must  have  definite  ideas 
and  feelings  to  express. 

d.  How  to  read  his  lines,  and  what  to  do  (the 
auditory  and  visual  appeals)  in  order  fully  to  ex- 
press the  ideas  and  feelings  that  his  character  en- 
tertains, at  the  same  time  expressing  them  so  as  to 
show  the  individuality  of  the  character.  This  reading 
and  action  constitute  the  acting  itself.  While  all- 
important  as  the  concrete  expression  of  the  stu- 
dent's interpretation  of  his  role,  it  is  based,  of 
course,  upon  the  study  of  the  three  other  phases 
of  the  lesson  preparation.    In  this  study  of  the  ex- 

[254] 


NOTES  TO  THE  INSTRUCTOR 

pression,  the  student  does  not  merely  decide  what 
to  do  and  how  to  read  his  lines;  he  actually  reads 
the  lines  aloud  and  makes  the  facial  expression, 
gestures,  and  bodily  movements  that  he  thinks 
appropriate.  No  preparation  can  be  adequate  that 
is  not  carefully  practised  at  least  once,  and  pref- 
erably several  times. 

2.  The  Recitation:  Setting  the  Stage. 
Standing  committees  on  Costume,  Setting,  and 

Properties  serve  throughout  the  work  with  any 
given  play.  In  the  matters  with  which  they  are 
especially  concerned,  they  carry  out  the  sugges- 
tions that  the  class  made  during  the  general  dis- 
cussion of  the  play;  but  since  the  physical  equip- 
ment of  the  stage  is  meager,  the  members  of  these 
committees  can  perform  their  special  duties  in 
addition  to  sharing  in  the  acting.  They  may  be 
able  to  prepare  the  stage  and  lay  out  the  properties 
and  costumes  before  the  recitation.  If  not,  they 
prepare  the  material  beforehand,  and  as  soon  as 
they  reach  the  classroom  they  set  the  stage  and 
put  in  convenient  places  the  costumes  and  what 
properties  are  not  to  be  on  the  stage  at  the  start 
of  the  recitation.  Any  special  committee,  such  as 
a  Music  Committee,  also  makes  itself  ready  to 
render  its  contribution  when  the  time  comes  for  it 
to  do  so. 

3.  The  Recitation:  Planning  the  Action  in  General. 
In  the  matters  of  the  action  and  grouping  of  the 

players  on  the  stage,  it  is  not  well  to  leave  more  than 
[255] 


NOTES  TO  THE  INSTRUCTOR 

the  details  to  be  developed  in  the  course  of  the 
acting  of  the  day's  assignment.  Each  student, 
in  his  preparation,  has  conceived  in  his  own  way 
the  general  action  and  the  grouping,  and  these 
diverse  conceptions  must  be  unified.  A  short  dis- 
cussion suffices  to  plan,  in  general,  both  the  posi- 
tions of  the  players  at  the  start  of  the  day's  work 
and  the  more  important  changes  that  will  be  called 
for  during  it.  At  the  same  time,  the  general  nature 
of  the  larger  bodily  movements  is  determined  so 
far  as  these  materially  affect  the  work  of  players 
other  than  those  making  the  movements.  It  is 
well  at  this  point  to  ask  members  of  the  class  to 
"  walk  through  "  the  action  of  the  day's  assign- 
ment, as  was  suggested  on  page  26.  The  advan- 
tage of  planning  the  general  action  and  grouping 
is  that  the  players  will  all  have  the  same  conception 
of  about  where  they  are  to  stand  and  about  what 
they  are  to  do  in  relation  to  one  another;  as  a  re- 
sult, they  will  be  free  to  concentrate  on  the  details 
of  their  expression,  and  there  will  be  little  need  to 
interrupt  their  work  to  correct  their  grouping  and 
larger  action. 

4.  The  Recitation:  The  Acting. 

After  the  action  and  grouping  have  been  planned 
in  general,  the  acting  begins.  The  instructor  (or 
a  Directing  Committee)  calls  upon  members  of 
the  class  to  begin  the  work,  each  character  being 
assigned  to  a  student  that  has  prepared  the  partic- 
ular r61e  now  given  him.  In  their  grouping  and 
more  important  bodily  motions,  the  players  will 
[256] 


NOTES  TO  THE  INSTRUCTOR 

follow  the  plan  that  the  class  has  just  worked  out. 
At  a  good  stopping  place  the  work  is  halted  and 
the  class  discusses  the  interpretation,  it  being  under- 
stood that  all  criticism  is  to  be  constructive.  At 
Evander  Childs  these  discussions  are  entirely  in- 
formal, any  student  being  permitted  to  speak  pro- 
vided he  first  gets  to  his  feet.  Hemarks  are  ad- 
dressed to  the  class  or  to  a  player  and  not  to 
the  instructor  unless  he  is  asked  particularly  for 
his  opinion  or  advice.  When  the  discussion  is 
over  the  work  proceeds,  other  students  taking  the 
place  of  the  first  set,  and  so  on.  The  acting  of  a 
particular  section  of  the  play  may  be  so  badly 
done  that  it  is  acted  over  again  in  the  light  of 
the  suggestions  developed  in  the  course  of  the 
discussion. 

In  the  criticisms,  the  principles  set  forth  in  Chap- 
ter II  are  used  as  the  basis  of  judgment,  and  the 
decisions  reached  by  the  class  in  the  course  of  the 
general  study  of  the  play  are  referred  to,  in  order 
to  keep  the  interpretation  unified.  Other  recita- 
tions of  a  similar  type  follow  this  first  one,  until  the 
whole  play  has  been  acted. 

The  play  is  now  acted  a  second  time,  in  order  to 
give  the  class  the  satisfaction  of  making  a  smoother 
performance  than  was  possible  the  first  time  the 
work  was  done.  In  some  cases  a  third,  or  Final 
Performance,  without  class  discussion  except  at  the 
close,  is  given,  to  which  a  few  members  of  the  Fac- 
ulty may  be  invited.  For  this  performance,  the 
class  chooses  the  cast,  those  who  have  done  the  best 
work  being  given  the  roles. 
[257] 


NOTES  TO  THE  INSTRUCTOR 

The  Students  and  the  R6les 

(.  Male  and  Female  Characters. 

A  reading  of  the  lists  of  the  characters  in  the 
seven  plays  in  the  book  will  show  that  there  is  a 
total  of  more  male  than  female  characters.  For 
classes  that  are  not  "  mixed  "  this  condition  will 
occasion  no  difficulty:.  Boys  do  not  object  to  play- 
ing women's  r61es  except  before  girls,  and  few 
girls  dislike  to  play  men's  parts.  In  a  boys'  class 
"  Will-o'-the-Wisp  "  may  be  omitted,  and  in  a  girls' 
class  "  Allison's  Lad  "  need  not  be  used.  Even  in 
mixed  classes,  the  preponderance  of  male  characters 
in  the  seven  plays  will  not  be  a  source  of  difficulty, 
for  if  there  are  more  girls  than  boys  in  the  class,  girls 
can  easily  take  many  of  the  male  roles  and  will  not 
dislike  doing  so.  In  "  The  Golden  Doom  "  all  the 
parts  may  be  played  by  girls,  and  all  the  roles  in 
"The  Turtle  Dove"  may  be  assigned  to  girls — even 
that  of  the  Mandarin.  It  is  even  preferable  in  the 
last-named  play  to  have  a  girl  take  the  part  of 
Chang-sut-yen.  In  the  last  two  plays  named,  the 
dress  of  the  characters  is  so  unlike  that  of  the  pres- 
ent day  in  America,  that  the  playing  of  the  men's 
roles  by  girls  does  not  seem  strange  to  player  or  audi- 
ence. Except  "  Allison's  Lad"  the  writer  has  used 
all  of  the  seven  plays  in  this  volume  at  Evander 
Childs  High  School,  where  girl  students  are  decidedly 
in  the  majority.  Asa  matter  of  fact,  it  is  almost  in- 
variably the  case  that  male  characters  predominate 
in  really  valuable  plays  that  are  suitable  for  class- 
room use  and  that  have  more  than  two  or  three  roles. 
[258] 


NOTES  TO  THE  INSTRUCTOR 

2.  Varying  the  Rdles. 

Is  it  better  for  a  student  to  keep  one  r61e  through- 
out any  one  play  or  for  each  student  in  his  turn 
to  play  several  parts?  Circumstances  will  vary 
in  different  classes.  The  advantage  in  keeping 
the  same  role  is  that  a  more  careful  study  can  be 
made  of  a  character  than  would  be  possible  where 
a  student  plays  in  turn  more  than  one  role.  On 
the  other  hand,  it  makes  for  development  of  his 
powers  of  insight  and  understanding  to  have  to 
identify  himself  with  more  than  one  character 
during  the  study  of  a  play.  A  boy  of  forceful  nature 
and  much  innate  dignity  may,  for  example,  be  well 
suited  for  the  part  of  Ulysses;  but  if  he  must 
also  play  Eurymachus  and  Antinous  he  tends  to 
widen  his  sympathy — certainly  to  develop  his 
powers  of  expression — in  the  portrayal  of  qualities 
which  are  not  markedly  his  own.  Then,  too,  the 
more  important  roles  should  not  be  confined  to  the 
small  number  of  students  that  could  play  them  if 
the  practice  of  keeping  one  r61e  were  followed 
throughout  the  work  with  any  one  play. 

Slang  and  Bad  Grammar  in  the  Plays 

Some  may  feel  that  in  a  school  only  texts  free 
from  slang  or  other  errors  in  speech  should  be  pro- 
vided for  the  use  of  the  students.  But  in  the  great 
novels  that  we  study,  the  ignorant  characters  use 
anything  but  standard  English;  to  have  made  the 
rustics  in  "  Silas  Marner  "  speak  irreproachably, 
or  to  have  had  the  Crunchers,  in  "  A  Tale  of  Two 
[259] 


NOTES  TO  THE  INSTRUCTOR 

Cities,"  choose  their  words  as  carefully  as  do  Mr- 
Lorry  and  Sidney  Carton,  would  have  been  bad 
art,  because  it  would  not  have  been  true  to  life. 
In  "  Ivanhoe,"  wonderful  story  that  it  is,  Scott 
has  made  Wamba  and  Gurth  and  other  of  the  ruder 
characters  talk  too  well,  and  this  mars  the  effective- 
ness of  the  book.  In  the  work  with  plays,  the  pres- 
ence of  slang  and  bad  grammar  in  the  mouths  of 
uneducated  men  and  women  is  effective  in  its 
realism,  and  there  is  no  danger  that  the  students 
will  be  led  to  first  endure,  then  pity,  then  embrace 
such  errors.  The  writer's  experience  has  been  just 
the  contrary.  Where  a  character  is  recognized 
by  the  class  to  be  untrained  in  his  speech,  his  errors 
are  very  vividly  associated  with  that  lack  of  train- 
ing, and  whenever  the  students  hear  the  same  errors 
spoken  by  people  in  real  life,  they  associate  the 
errors  with  the  uneducated  characters  that  com- 
mitted them  in  the  plays.  As  a  result,  they  defi- 
nitely stamp  instances  of  bad  English  as  errors  of 
ignorance. 

Composition 

In  the  Notes  on  Chapter  I,  it  was  pointed  out 
that  in  the  general  study  of  a  play  there  is  practi- 
cally an  unlimited  opportunity  for  oral  and  written 
composition  on  various  subjects  directly  or  in- 
directly concerned  with  the  work.  The  same 
condition  obtains  in  the  matter  of  the  detailed 
interpretation.  The  discussions  in  the  classroom 
provide  occasion  for  much  oral  composition,  and 
written  criticisms  or  reports  of  the  day's  work  may 
[2601 


NOTES  TO  THE  INSTRUCTOR 

very  properly  be  called  for.  The  "  final  "  perform- 
ances provide  opportunity  for  the  writing  of  an- 
nouncements, programs,  advertisements  (composed 
as  though  for  the  school  paper),  and  letters  in- 
viting a  few  of  the  most  interested  members  of  the 
Faculty  to  attend  and  judge  the  work.  Criticisms 
of  any  of  the  class  performances  may  be  written 
as  reportorial  work.  Comparisons  of  plays  studied, 
or  estimates  of  characters  in  the  plays,  afford  inter- 
esting subjects  for  written  themes  or  for  oral  dis- 
cussion. These  are,  of  course,  only  some  of  the 
many  subjects  that  may  be  assigned  for  composition 
work  in  connection  with  the  plays.  The  class  will 
doubtless  wish  to  have  a  bulletin  board.  On  this, 
press  clippings  of  criticisms  of  good  plays  that  are 
current  on  the  professional  stage  may  profitably 
be  posted — particularly  criticisms  published  by 
Dramatic  Leagues  or  Societies — and  such  clip- 
pings may  well  lead  to  worth-while  discussions. 
When  any  of  the  members  of  the  class  see  good 
dramatic  performances,  either  professional  or 
amateur,  they  should  make  a  report  to  the  class 
and  bulletin  a  summary  of  their  judgment.  At 
Evander  Childs,  in  the  course  of  the  term,  each 
member  of  the  dramatic  classes  writes  an  original 
one-act  play. 

In  General 

The  purpose  of  the  dramatic  work  is  not  to 

train  students  to  become  actors  and  actresses, — 

far  from  it.     In  their  classroom  acting  boys  and 

girls  are  not  taught  stage  tricks,  but  are  led  to 

[261] 


NOTES  TO  THE  INSTRUCTOR 

translate  the  printed  word  into  sense  appeal. 
Work  in  the  Visual  Appeal  gives  ease  and  poise 
in  the  bearing  of  the  students,  and  teaches  the 
lvalue  of  proper  facial  expression  and  gesture  in 
the  expression  of  thought  and  feeling.  Aside  from 
some  slight  attention  that  may  be  paid  to  it  in  the 
Elocution  classroom,  our  schools  have  neglected 
the  use  of  the  body  as  an  element  in  the  effective 
expression  of  thought  and  feeling.  But  surely 
both  facial  expression  and  gesturing — the  latter 
including  general  bearing  and  physical  poise — are 
recognized  outside  the  schools  as  important  factors 
in  the  communication  of  ideas  and  feelings  and 
in  the  expression  of  personality.  What  Pope  said 
of  writing  may  be  applied  to  these  physical  factors 
in  expression: 

"  True  ease  in  writing  comes  from  art,  not  chance, 
As  those  move  easiest  who  have  learn'd  to  dance. 
'Tis  not  enough  no  harshness  gives  offence, — 
The  sound  must  seem  an  echo  of  the  sense." 

The  section  on  the  Auditory  Appeal  has  been 
made  very  full  because  the  average  high  school 
student  is  ignorant  of  how  to  use  his  voice  effect- 
ively. One  of  the  greatest  values  of  dramatic  work 
in  the  classroom  is  the  training  it  affords  in  oral 
expression.  The  motivated  and  socialized  work 
with  plays  is  sufficiently  interesting  to  cause  the 
student  to  make  a  genuine  effort  at  proper  oral 
expression  if  he  realizes  fully  the  nature  of  the  prob- 
lem that  he  faces.  The  training  that  the  dramatic 
work  affords  will  develop  an  ability  that  will  be 
[262] 


NOTES  TO  THE  INSTRUCTOR 

evident  in  any  oral  reading.  One  of  the  chief 
reasons  that  our  boys  and  girls  read  aloud  no  better 
than  they  do  is  that  they  are  not  in  the  habit  of 
seeking  to  understand  just  what  the  thought  and 
feeling  are  in  any  passage  they  read;  and  if  they 
do  realize  these,  they  have  not  developed  the  art 
of  making  the  thought  and  feeling  evident  in  the 
way  they  read.  In  the  dramatic  work,  these 
matters  are  emphasized. 

Well-written  plays  serve  admirably  as  models 
of  the  effective  expression  of  thought  in  language, 
and  the  instructor  may  profitably  lead  his  charges 
to  a  fuller  realization  than  they  would  otherwise 
secure  of  the  clear,  appropriate  language  in  which 
the  plays  in  this  book  are  written.  Of  all  writers, 
the  author  of  a  good  play  can  be  guilty  of  no  slov- 
enly or  hazy  expression,  or  foggy  thinking  back  of 
it.  He  must  keep  the  attention  of  the  audience 
alert,  and  he  must  be  wholly  clear  in  everything 
he  writes,  since  everything  must  give  definite 
information,  or  afford  definite  insight  into  matters 
of  the  play.  Often  fine  shades  of  thought  or  emo- 
tional attitudes  must  be  disclosed  in  single  sentences 
or  even  single  words,  and  this  makes  imperative 
the  choice  of  exactly  the  right  terms.  The  style 
of  speech  assigned  to  each  person  in  the  play  must 
have  an  individual  flavor,  which  means  that  the 
sentence  structure,  as  well  as  the  diction,  must 
have  significant  characteristics. 

Nor  should  the  value  of  the  content  of  worth- 
while plays  be  lost  sight  of.  In  their  work  with 
such  plays,  the  students  have  to  do  with  human 
[2631 


NOTES  TO  THE  INSTRUCTOR 

nature  in  transcripts  from  life.  After  all,  the 
biggest  thing  in  the  lives  of  our  boys  and  girls  is 
going  to  be  the  task  of  being  men  and  women 
among  men  and  women,  and  any  school  study  that 
deals  with  the  workings  of  the  human  mind  and 
heart  is  of  the  utmost  value  to  them.  To  a  certain 
extent  we  are  all  properly  players  in  our  daily  lives. 
A  proper  dramatic  training  is  an  important  prepa- 
ration for  life  itself:  the  nurse,  the  physician,  the 
salesman,  the  welfare  expert, — every  man  or 
woman  with  a  definite  work  calling  for  powers  of 
mind  and  heart — has  to  play  a  part.  The  role  of 
friend  is  an  absorbing  and  exacting  one.  Self- 
control,  power  of  quick  analysis  of  character  and 
passing  mood  and  mental  state,  effective  expres- 
sion of  just  the  thought  and  feeling  that  one  should 
show  at  any  given  time, — all  these  are  important 
factors  in  the  great  art  of  being  men  and  women 
among  men  and  women  on  the  great  stage  of  life. 


[264] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


NOV  17 


FE|eC"  li9l947 
FEB    1    1948 


Ray'49H 

■•SO  AW 


1947 


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lOOec'SOWK 


s* 


.* 


^ 


JAN 


1953  tn 


fjA^"2 


)  21-100m-9,'47(A5702sl6)476 


:^S 


J  I 


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gift  1954 11 


REC'D  LD 

MAR  Z\  m>2 


-  D  LOT 


Y.B   I  i  546 


A  OcMfc./ 


...    VVv   - 


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